Nary a Thought for England
by ficlit78
Summary: After mere weeks of engagement, John and Margaret now face their wedding night. After all that has transpired between them, how will they navigate this great unknown? Frank discussions and Victorian propriety explored. Also just smut drabbles and baby making because these two sorely need to bang it out. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

_The First Night_

It began in his room.

His room now made theirs. The fires had been lit hours ago to warm the large space. The house staff had prepared the bed in grand splendour, bedecked in soft linens and coverlets chosen to please their new mistress. The house had emptied of guests at last. The elder Mrs. Thornton had bid them goodnight. Her chamber, the only other occupied room on the second floor (now that Fanny had married), was mercifully at the far back. John's, the master preferring to look out over the mill's entrance, was located in front.

And though the day had moved at an agonisingly slow speed for John, just like that, they were suddenly alone. In the flickering light. Each having removed their main attire in the dressing room, standing together now in their undergarments.

At some point in the day, between the ceremony and the toasts, John made a decision. As Margaret faced him in expectation, he put forth his plan to save them both from any more misunderstandings. They had endured enough on that score.

With certainty that bespoke a businessman, he reached backwards and caught the yoke of his undershirt. With a yank, he pulled it clear over his head and tossed it to the floor. Not wanting to see her reaction, he kept his eyes on his task as he untied his breeches, pushing them down his bare legs and kicking them gently to the side. He felt no aggression in his actions. No impatience. Rather a rough honesty that he felt he must exercise now.

His wonderful, wilful Margaret. She prized frankness. She thrived on clarity.

If he was going to take her maidenhead this night as his baser self so badly wanted to, then he was not going to rush her. Nor startle her. She would be allowed to look. To question. This night would be filled with her innocent curiosity that would no doubt test his poorly-trained patience. After all, he was usually a man quick to flare. It had kept him alive as a child, ahead as an adult, and feared as a business force. But, he was besotted with a virgin who held no fear at all of his character, but could easily tip into pain from his body if he wasn't careful. So he risked being seen as vulgar by his highborn wife and stood before her with no shield.

So when she saw him thus for the first time—truly saw him—she barely moved. Stripped of clothing and arrogance, he merely looked at her.

Her eyes trailed over his face, down his throat, over his chest and abdomen, and finally to the place she barely had a name for. It was fully erect. He felt her embarrassment, far more than his own. He stood still. It was important to him for her to see, to understand.

As she took in his dimensions, she finally cleared her throat. "I understand there will be some pain."

His cock jumped slightly at the sound of her voice. She inhaled at its movement.

He nodded, then shook his head with certainty. "I've heard that as well. I…I won't hurt you, my love. I want you…but…" he paused, groping for an explanation. He missed the warming in her eyes as his searched the floor. He finally looked up with clarity. "I'll do only what you want. And nothing you don't." It was the most honest offer he could think of.

She gave a tremulous smile, holding her shift to her front with ingrained modesty. "And…what am I to do? What offer can I make in return?"

He heart swelled to near bursting point. Only his Margaret would ask for parity.

"Instruction," he said. "We are to touch. We are to join. And move together. But you shall command me in this."

Eyes wide, teeth nibbling on her lower lip, she nodded, as though the most ordinary of bargains had been struck and not a description of her deflowering. "May I take some time? To look at you? As you are now?"

He nodded, willing his ache to lessen, silently roaring at his body to relax and stop straining towards her like a brute. He braced his bare feet on the warmed floorboards and kept his arms at his sides. He would not reach for her or cover himself. Neither shame nor greed would own this night.

Slowly, she came to him. His brow went up. He'd expected to be examined from her position at the foot of their bed.

The orange flicker of firelight grew brighter across her face, reflected in her hair, illuminating her form through her thin shift as she drew closer to him. Her eyes stayed on his chest, though he could not sense her thoughts as she stared. She came to a stop only inches away. His erection had softened slightly under his ire, but her closeness threatened to overrun his authority and jam it ever higher into the air.

A single finger rose between them. She pressed its tip against his breastbone. John gasped softly. It was the first place she'd ever touched that was not his face or hands. His nerves jangled, then crowded under her fingertip, his entire being eager to experience that single inch of contact.

He cursed himself. _Where was his famous control? _

Margaret contemplated the small bridge, clutching her shift tighter. John read her reaction as anxious. That, quicker than anything, settled him.

"What are you thinking?" he asked softly.

The low, rough pitch of his voice made her stomach clench pleasantly. She looked up at his eyes. "That men were sculpted by a different artist entirely."

At that, he chuckled. The action tightened his stomach muscles, making them ripple. Quickly, she replaced her finger with her palm, hoping to catch the ripples in her hand. He immediately stopped and took another, uneven breath.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"No," he answered. "Not in the way you think."

"Are you nervous then?"

He thought, then replied. "No."

"Then?"

"Eager."

She nodded, then moved her hand upwards, noting as his topography changed from slightly hairy to gritty from his chest to his throat. Her thumb stroked in the notch between his collar bones. If she were tall enough, her lips would fit perfectly there. She would remember that for later, when they no longer stood.

Moving to his left, she let her hand wander. From his throat, tracing lightly over the shell of his ear, down briefly through his hair and then cupping his shoulder. Her other hand lifted, and both slid down the thick ropes of his arm, nails grazing. John closed his eyes. He'd never been petted before. Never been seen in this detail by another living soul except his mother, last when he was ten. Previous encounters of his youth, girls his age and station, groping in the cold and dark, were clothed, brief, and fumbling. The hairs on his arms stood on end, reaching for her since their fool of an owner refused.

John gave over to the certainty that, after so many years of solitary existence, he would never survive without Margaret's touch.

Margaret was lost in this new lesson. She took in this new side of the equation, as was her way in all things.

John feared his heart might now stop entirely. Her gentleness. Her fearlessness. If this was his reaction to her exploration, how would he bear their lovemaking when the moment came? Surely no one had ever died of love save for those sops in Fanny's penny novels?

She was now at his back. He saw nothing, simply felt her fingers and they followed his shoulders, taking in their broad line, then drawing a single tip down his spine.

"You're so beautiful." Her whisper stabbed him in some deep, unknown place. Muscles built up from years of common labour tensed under her praise.

He could think of no compliment to return that he had not already paid her dozens of times in their brief engagement. He'd called her beautiful. Glorious. Sweet. Angelic. She'd laughed at each in turn. Now his mind burned with questions that had plagued him since her first refusal. "Have I always pleased you?"

Her touch went no lower than his hips. He felt the brush of her shift against his thigh. She was so, so very close. He could almost feel her blush.

"Yes."

"In what respect?"

A pause, then the sweet, utterly foreign feel of her fingers sliding into his hair at the back of his head. "This is certainly one of them," she said. "What a wolfish mane you have."

John reacted without thinking. He dropped to his knees.

Margaret jerked away at the sudden movement, but John reached back without looking, grabbed her hand and placed it on his head. "Don't stop." And lowered his chin to his chest, allowing her access to any single hair she wished.

At this, she laughed heartily and complied, driving both hands into that raven black, delighting as her pale fingers broke it apart, reminding her of piano keys. She carded the soft strands this way and that, amazed at the sounds she pulled from his throat as she did so. Deep, grateful moans that turned her belly warm and slippery. She closed her fists in it and tugged, indicating he tip his head back. He did, and she stepped between his prone calves and swept downwards, soundly kissing his forehead from her perch behind him. She let her lips linger before pulling back and looking into his icy, upside-down gaze. Her chest hurt with love for this man kneeling in supplication before her.

She continued to answer his question. She owed him every last truth. "Your eyes, sir."

"What of them, madam?"

"Have you never been told how lovely they are? How…powerful?"

He smiled dreamily. "What possible power can they wield over you, my goddess?"

She blushed, pulling his hair slightly for embarrassing her again. He hissed with pleasure at the punishment. "I shan't tell you. You'll only use them against me."

"Indeed I cannot. I am just a man. You are Athena. Wise and wild and fierce. I can only pray for your favour, and hope you take pity on my lovesick soul."

"Stop, John." She turned her face into the glorious wave of her falling hair.

"As my goddess commands."

"Stop!" She wailed through her smile, dropping to her own knees between his legs, burying her face in his shoulder, her arms curling round and locking around his chest. Her breasts pressed firmly into his shoulder blades, her stomach into his ribs, her hips against his bare backside.

His eyes slid closed and his head dropped back against hers, rubbing and rumbling into her ear. "I like this," he whispered. "I like how you look at me. And I love that you approve of what you see."

"You _are_ beautiful, John. Surely you've heard this before. Your mother, on our very first meeting, informed me that all the ladies of Milton fell at your feet. Your voice lures us from every corner of a crowded room. You tower and boom above all other men. How is it that you look at me with such wonder that I say so? I am not the first to admire a tall, handsome man!"

"They have smiled and tittered at me from behind their fans, it's true. Like little girls. Like magpies, hunting for a shiny, prosperous marriage to pluck up. None have argued with me as you do. None have stared into my 'powerful' eyes, as you call them, and reacted with a power of her own. Plenty have tried to whisper secrets to me in dark corners of dinner parties, none at all have flung accusations at me across a dinner table in front of thirty dropped mouths. None have examined my success and seen a moral shortfall. Save Margaret. Only and just my Margaret. You may think me beautiful, and I am grateful for it, but you would never have married me unless you saw merit."

He paused, his smile widening. "Or potential, at the very least."

She giggled and hugged him harder. "Merit. Most certainly merit, sir."

They were quiet a moment. His arms folded over hers on his chest. After a few moments, eyes still closed and revelling in her soft embrace, he asked, "What else can I do?"

"Hmmmm?" Margaret was no better off, eyes closed with her head firmly settled in the juncture of his neck.

"I may die from it, but I continue to offer myself for your inspection. Whatever you want." He reached up and traced her cheek. "And nothing you don't," he reminded.

She pulled away slightly, thinking. She loosened her hands at his chest, pulling them outwards around his ribs.

"Can…?"

He turned slightly to her, nodding. "Yes. Anything, yes."

She looked at him with wide, uncertain eyes, biting both lips between her teeth. "Can you please stand again?"

He was on his feet before she finished, bending to offer his hand and help her up. She took it, but did not lift. Instead, she kissed along the bridge of his knuckles. "My husband. I wish to….to examine…the place you join with me."

Her gaze fell to where his body pointed rudely at her.

John sucked in a ragged breath, pulling his hips back, away from her as the meaning was made clear. His wife merely blinked up at him in honest inquisitiveness.

"I…" he stuttered. "You…may stand for such an assessment."

"I know. But I…" she also struggled. "I want to know you, my love. All of you. I refuse to be a wilting wife, demanding darkness, ignorance and _enduring_ for England, as Aunt Shaw put it. If this is to be our next shared experience, I should like to be schooled." She arched her brow. "Properly."

John cursed and did not regret it. That a goddess in white knelt before him asking to see the throbbing evidence of his desire made him lightheaded. He simply had no point of reference. He feared the unthinkable might happen, namely a loss of control that ended in a mortifying mess across the floor.

But she had asked. And he had offered.

Swallowing against his own fears, he relented and stood straight once again. Hands at his side, eyes straight forward. He would obey, but he could not bring himself to look.

Margaret understood. She shivered at the thought of when her own disrobing would inevitably occur this night, how she must bear it with the same bravery as her husband. But that was later. Now, she had been permitted to explore.

As John's anatomy stood at rigorous attention, she on stood up straighter on her knees, allowing six inches between her gaze and her subject. She stared in equal parts fascination and fear. John's was the first and only she would ever experience. She too had no point of reference. Her instincts told her that, like all other parts of John Thornton, his was rather exceptional. (She had no way of knowing she was correct. The third largest specimen in all of Darkshire was now hers to satisfy.) Call it her obvious bias, but for such an odd body part, she found it strangely alluring, as though it answered in male tones a need that she as a woman had been wholly ignorant of until she'd met this particular man.

In proportions, she ventured a guess at nine inches long. Two inches in diameter. The large, smooth bell interrupted by the smallest of holes at the centre. The shaft was thick, angry, flushed, and met by a scant smattering of hair at the base. Nothing too thatch-like, and for some reason she was glad of it. Beneath it, a heavy sack that she ostensibly knew to be testicular organs. His skin here was creased, not smooth. Under her scrutiny, it tightened further still, condensing until two distinct balls were visible.

"Is it always so?" she asked. She could not believe something so large and intrusive could be concealed when he was dressed. He confirmed, rather shyly, that she was the cause of its engorged state and it normally lay prone.

She lifted her hand, then quickly drew it back. "May I?" she remembered her manners.

John, staring miles away with a soldier's discipline, simply jerked his chin down. "Of course."

Margaret raised her hand again and rested her fingertips along his length. It felt warm and strong. He inhaled sharply and pulsed against her hand. She willed herself to keep it there, she would not spend the night flinching away.

"Does it hurt somehow?" she asked.

A tight exhalation and shake of black hair met her question.

"Do you approve?"

"God yes, woman."

She nodded, cataloging the information. She wanted to remember everything.

Gaining a bit of confidence, she leaned closer. John had scrubbed himself thoroughly for his wedding day. His skin had a lustre in the dim light. He smelled of soap. Margaret breathed slowly through her nose. His scent was more layered than that, however. She detected the faint smell of ashes, no doubt from the smoke that permeated the town on even the sunniest days. But on John it was cleaner in note, like a dry wood fire. She liked it. Much as she'd liked the district smell of molasses at his neck where she'd buried her nose. She'd never considered that people had their own bouquets, like all fine wines mysteriously did; plums and roses when no such ingredient entered the bottle. Excited, she cupped her other hand behind his bare thigh, pressing herself forehead and nose into the rigid stack of muscle in his upper leg. Greedily, she inhaled again.

_Yes._ Ashes. Starchy soap. Dark, sticky-sweet sugar. A savage glee filled her at the discovery. This scent was _hers_ now. Ann Latimer and all of those tittering magpies would _never_ know of it. John would go about his days, dressed in somber black, oblivious to all but his work, speaking to them in polite passing as they stopped him in the street. But this delightful secret would remain so. Until he came home. Until she pulled him close. Until she tugged at hems and buttons behind closed doors and just breathed him in until she popped.

Another moan escaped John and she looked up.

"You are killing me," he gritted out, daring to look his assassin in the eye. The sight nearly dropped him where he stood. Margaret was buried between his legs, one hand gently cradling his girth, the other (not too gently) gripping his thigh where she eagerly pressed herself into him. "What are you doing?"

At that, she pulled back. "You smell nice. I can stop if you like."

"Never. Never stop this, ever."

She grinned. "The mill will need its master. Eventually."

"Devil take the mill. Please never take your hands off me again."

She laughed her sweetest laugh and gave no thought when she kissed his hipbone affectionately. His cock jumped harder in her grasp. His hand shot out and gripped the mantle above the fire, bowing into her lips in pure instinct. His face scrunched as though he were in terrible pain. His reaction to her rather innocently-meant kiss caused another foreign stab of desire between her own legs. Wanting to keep him just as he was, she moved her lips to his tip. Surely, if he enjoyed her hands and her kisses, he would enjoy the two combined. She pressed a fervent kiss into that adorable bell.

John stiffened under her touch and swore again, louder and more profane than before. "No, darling."

She lifted a fraction, jutting her chin in a cute pout. "Whatever I want, remember? May I not kiss my husband?"

"I'm barely withstanding your touch, Margaret. Your lips…" he screwed his eyes shut and shuddered. She watched, fascinated.

"If I continue?"

"I'll shock you and humiliate myself," he answered through clenched teeth.

That did nothing to dim her curiosity. What could possibly happen if she kept making him happy? She was resolved to answer. Staring at him, she kissed him again, delighting in his laboured hiss, and opened her mouth as she often did when their tongues met. She took at tentative swipe, following its roundness with three slow circles.

"_Christ_," he swore again. "What possesses you to torture me this way?"

She accepted a little more of him. He was so inexplicably delicious. Warm. Soft. Hard. Letting her learn him without making demands. She felt so wonton, charting an angry sea that calmed simply because she asked to glide upon it. On a whim, she sucked lightly as she worked her way down.

John's eyes popped open. He threw himself backwards, not stopping until he hit the bedposts. Margaret rose to her feet, amazed at him.

He glared at her, identical to their first meeting when he'd roared in anger over the raucous machines. Her body answered his glare with another clench between her legs. She tightened her thighs to quell it. She whimpered at the loss of him. At the want for something she'd never needed before but would surely faint from now if she didn't receive.

His head and eyes were lowered, a posture she'd only ever seen in an angry dog.

_He loves me because I fight him_. Glaring right back, she yanked her shift over her head and stood as he had, arms away, feet firm, unafraid. Without thinking she threw the garment in the fire. Firelight blazed through the room before settling back as it ate its meal.

"If you are withdrawing your offer, sir, I suppose I should start with mine." The urge to cover herself was overwhelming. Lifting her head high, she locked her hands behind her back, punishing their cowardice. The result pushed her pert, curvy breasts out on proud display, her pink nipples contracting in the air.

Her eyes never left his, but his could not help but wander.

The slim set of her shoulders, set alight by her wild curls falling around her cheeks and neck, small tendrils escaping to tease her breasts while the majority cascaded down her back. Her waist was achingly feminine, setting off a shocking burst of emotions in him that rocked between gentle and enraged. Her arms and legs were slender and strong. Her hips rounded in a tease that made his hands itch.

_Her sex. _

John's violent lust punched him in the gut. He feared his erection might actually crack at the sight.

It was the sweetest little thing. A barely-there triangle of soft brown curls, not nearly enough to conceal the delicate cleft at its centre. A cleft that filled his whole world in that moment. His mind deserted him. He was an animal in the purest form. He wanted to fuck. Grab this lovely creature who had mated to him for life and rut like beasts until blackness took him. He was so damned proud of her, with her anger and her kindness and her maddening beauty.

She continued to stare, mistaking his silence for something else.

"You asked for instruction, husband. Will you not come to me as I did to you?" In the defiant question, he detected the smallest note of hurt.

He stalked towards her, brushing straight past the respectful distance she'd kept with him and swept her up. She did not anticipate his sudden advance and was not prepared when he lifted her clean off her feet, crushed their every naked inch together, and kissed her. She gasped into his mouth at the feel of the warm planes of his body moulding into her softer curves. The dark, sweet taste of his lips sent her arms flying around his neck, her hands deep into his hair. His erection stabbed insistently into her belly.

Then, just as quickly, she was on her feet, her lover moving out of her space save for her hand clutched in his. He bent to kiss it before letting it go. As soon as he did, he fell to his knees once more, tugging her close.

"Tell me if _you _approve," he muttered in his baritone before wrapping his arms around her hips, capturing a nipple between his teeth and sucking hard.

"_John_," she gasped sharply. Her hands clamped onto his shoulders. Keening loudly, she arched her back, shocked at the relief in her aching breast as he tongued its soft flesh. He switched sides, rolling the second nipple before flattening his tongue and lapping at her. She pushed into it, giving a slight shriek when he nipped her.

"Do you like this?" he taunted her.

"Lord save me," she whispered, wrapping both arms around his head. "What are you doing to me?"

"Answer me, goddess mine."

"Yes!" she cried in exasperation.

"Good."

She shrieked again as he grasped her waist, knocking her legs out from under her. He caught her weight, bringing her down to the thick rug before the fire. She gripped him on instinct, only to lose him again when he skimmed her body, painting a wet line the whole way down.

"You smell of apples," his words sounded like an accusation. "Fresh and clean and made to be eaten."

She cried out when he roughly parted her knees. "When you put me in your mouth, what did I taste like?"

She was mortified at his face inches from her sex. She was desperate for him to be closer. "Sh-sugar. Brown sugar," she whispered.

At that, John smiled. A true, warm smile. He settled one of her thighs on his shoulder, the other he palmed open, splaying her wide in the fire's light. With a single finger, he traced her cleft, purring with pride at its brimming moisture.

"May I taste yours as well?" He too was no slouch on manners.

She had no recourse. She felt the hot shame bred into young ladies from their birth. And yet, no one had mentioned this throb that her husband would elicit inside her. She didn't understand it. She had no vocabulary and no information on how to quell it. She wanted it satisfied. John seemed the key. Surely that was how it was meant to be once married? She nodded.

With disbelieving eyes, she watched her husband kiss a path down her open thigh. Reaching his destination, he blew warm air across her.

She bucked, startled by her own reaction. He looked up at her face framed between two perfect breasts. He grinned a victor's grin.

He licked a long, slow stripe along her entire length. She bowed up tight as a loom thread at the sensation, just as John sagged with disbelief.

"My God, you taste like lemon tart," he moaned against her thigh, kissing it again with more ardour. "My sweetheart. My darling wife, I need you so."

Margaret moaned her agreement, but John planned to repay her cruelty, and resumed lapping and readying her virgin territory for the breach that was coming. She could not stand it. Margaret bucked again, in frustration. This…_thing _he was doing to her was driving her mad. His dark head buried against her, groaning as if feasting on honey, she could not look away.

"_John_," she begged, her hands flying behind her to gain purchase, only to change their minds and rake his arms in invitation. "_Please_."

He found that elusive little nub that those grotesque illustrated novels had spoken of and sucked it hard before battering it with his tongue.

"_John_!"

_I am dead, surely_, he mused. Margaret Thornton née Hale, not his wife for nine hours, sobbing his name as he tongued her into readiness, but not before she'd sucked on his cock while gazing at him like a prince. _Dead. Or dreaming, at the least. _

She was pulling at him in earnest now. He kissed each thigh before relenting, wiping his face on his discarded shirt before crawling up her lovely form. When he reached her face, he placed the gentlest kiss on her forehead.

"I adore you," she whispered into his throat. Laying in his arms, she seized her advantage and kissed that vulnerable notch at the base. More warm, salty sugar met her there and she hummed in approval. She's been wrong, it was slightly deeper than her lips, so she filled the remainder with her tongue.

It constricted at her words, threatening to choke him. He pulled back to look at her. "You own me, lover. Body and soul, they are yours."

Smiling with bursting happiness, Margaret reached between their bodies, pulling him near his Heaven. He hesitated. "May I take you to bed?" He looked back at that carnal altar his staff had trussed for their marital relations. It now seemed garish.

She shook her head hard. "No. Now. I want you now."

He clicked his teeth. "It still may hurt."

"It already aches unbearably."

He kissed her smile, feeling downright smug wrapped in her love. "Then let us try."

Batting her hand away, he took hold of himself. He kept his eyes on hers as he deliberately rubbed himself against her, coating himself in her wetness, priming her. Her breath hitched and she froze, waiting for the unknown. She wanted to move, to curve her hips and encourage him, but she worried it would cause more pain. So still she stayed.

John could take no more. He gently—_very _gently—pushed inside.

The lovers groaned in unison.

John was now _certain _he was dead, and this was not Heaven but Hell. Blindingly hot, impossibly tight, eagerly accepting him as only the devil would. Two inches of nine slid forth. His fingers feathered over her face as he gauged her reaction.

"Margaret?"

She nodded frantically, bucking despite her precautions. "Yes. More. _Please_."

He dropped his face to her neck, nodding stiffly and pushing further in. Four of nine. His gasp was ragged against her soft skin. "It must hurt, lover. It _must_."

She closed her fists in his hair and lifted his head. She saw his guilt at his own pleasure. She shook her head hard, lifting her legs, stroking his hips, up his ribs, before locking her ankles firmly behind his back. "_More_," she demanded.

"You feel too good. Too tight." His hips betrayed him and joined Margaret's, pumping together, closer, until they were nearly fused.

She made a cute noise of impatience, her legs tugging him down.

The last of his restraint slipped and he gave in, filling her up with everything he had. His goddess made a wild trill of pleasure, using his hair to yank him down, frantic kisses scattered over his face. His eyes rolled as he was gripped in a soft, tight snare, refusing to let him move beyond the lunge of his hips. And lunge they did.

He couldn't stop himself. She felt too remarkably sweet, the narrowness of her virginity tempered by eager wetness. One threatened to squeeze him out entirely while the other sucked him deeper. The woman herself was lost in their rhythm, her cries and whispers getting louder than he imagined she'd meant them to. He basked, happier than he could have thought possible. Their first time had none of the awkwardness he feared, instead full of an ecstasy that he would have called a damned lie if described by another man.

He lowered to her ear, whispering his love, before letting his own moans loose. She would never be a wife in doubt of her husband's joy, he would make sure of it.

Margaret didn't _understand_. Her body was pressed down and opened up. Their nudity, a man's touch, his weight, the inappropriate rug beneath them, the shock of another person deep within her. None of it was proper. The world had conditioned her to avoid every last one. So why in God's name did all of it feel so right? His weight was not a stone but a shield. His fierce erection inside her was a key unlocking. His kiss against her ear and his gentle voice whispering were casting a spell, and she responded by arching higher, opening wider, to its command.

_Too good. Too big. _

Margaret cried his name, overwhelmed.

The last of John's fears were destroyed. She wanted him. She loved him. And his presence inside her inflamed her. He had asked God for less, never believing He would gift John with such triumph. He lifted his head and roared, euphoric.

A creak in the hallway. A whisper.

_The maids were listening_.

Margaret did not hear, busy humming a kiss into his throat. John growled, angry at their intrusion and proud of this wild spectacle that drew a crowd. He tightened his grip on her. He would not break from her to deal with them. His own selfish needs and Margaret's mortification stopped him. Instead, he quickened his pace. He would drown out their interference with even more enthusiastic noise.

"_Yes_!" Margaret hissed. "John, please don't stop."

"Never," he hissed back, louder than was necessary. "You feel so good, I cannot stand it. My sweetheart." He palmed her breast, she arched shamelessly into his hand. "How will you ever bear our children when your sex strangles me thus?"

With that, she froze against him, a lusty scream tearing from her bee stung lips. Her short nails scored his back. The vice of her knees would leave bruises on his sides. Her channel seized, clamping down and milking him in unbearable pleasure. John was only a man, as he'd warned. He rammed home once more and roared, cresting so violently that he was certain it would snap his very bones. Margaret sobbed, rubbing against him as she rode each of her own waves before collapsing back to the rug. Grunting, shaking, John soon followed, keeping his weight on his elbows, as one remaining thought reminded him not to crush her.

Spent, they finally lay still.

Her breasts lifted and rose under his chest as her steady breathing returned. Locking her between his bent arms, he nuzzled into her hair until he found her ear, kissing and muttering.

A faint giggle and two sets of feet moved away on the other side of their door.

Margaret's breathing stopped.

"Ssshh," he whispered. "Stay in this with me. Never mind those silly geese."

"They heard us." He felt her tremble beneath him.

"And will again. Many times. Please do not upset yourself." He lifted up to console her. To his surprise, she was suppressing her own giggles. She clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes dancing as her body shook with laughter.

She lifted it a fraction to breath out, "Better the maids than your mother."

He barked a laugh, loud and relaxed, before smacking her hand to the side and leading her into a ruined, smiling kiss. She gladly accepted, wrapping him up again in four limbs and showing him what an affectionate lover he'd had the singular luck to find.

Pulling back, he gently lifted his hips from hers, slipping free from the haven his addled mind swore he'd never leave. He sat up and reached out to throw another log on the fire, replenishing the warmth and light, before raising up on his knees to examine his softened member. As he suspected, it was streaked lightly with blood. He turned to her, grabbing his ill-used shirt, and motioned for her to open to him once more. Her pale, dimpled knees parted with no reluctance, her eyes watching his every move.

"There's blood," he gestured to himself. "Are you in pain?"

She did not look down at him for proof. "None at all. Indeed, I am quite content."

With the care of a devoted nurse, John gently parted her folds, eyes squinted, as he looked for injury. Seeing only healthy, glistening flesh, John tented his index finger in the material before inserting it into her shallow depths. Margaret gasped above him, widening her thighs in involuntary invitation. He smiled at her trust, her clear desire for him. "So soon?"

She looked hopeful. "May we?"

He extracted his clothed digit and noted small spots of red, coated heavily with his own semen. Nothing worrying. For the hundredth time since their chance encounter at the train station, John questioned his sanity. His seed mixed with Margaret Hale's virgin blood, the earthy scent of their physical love, his most depraved dream made real. She made a noise of annoyance, "One more token for their amusement once laundry is collected." She gestured to the shirt now stained with several fluids. She spoke of the maids.

Grinning, he tossed it in the fire, alongside its burnt companion, and knuckled a path to her side as she giggled, with her nearest to the flames. As he settled them side by side with her back to his chest, he propped himself on his elbow and snaked his other arm under hers, creeping along her breasts. Since they were far beyond modesty, he did what he liked, letting his fingertips tease around their firm weight and play with her nipples. She leaned back into his ministrations, letting him look, her bottom wiggling as she squirmed under his attentions.

"I need a moment," he admitted, relishing the novelty of being seduced. "Only one, mind."

She surely heard, but did not stop her movements. She threw her arm behind her to capture his neck. "John?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you."

He released another amused burst of air. "For what, lover?"

There was a silent moment with only the burning wood crackling. When she spoke, her words were soft and directed at the fire. "I have heard… things. Men who are not careful. Men who are not patient. A woman married is a woman wholly in his power. I know you are good, and have a kind heart, but this…" she broke off. She pressed her hand over his, directly over her heart. "This is wonderful. Thank you."

It beat under his palm.

"The law says you're mine," he replied. "But I spoke the truth before, Margaret. You own every drop of my blood. I will live, kill and die by you. You and no other. If I've pleased you tonight, I've succeeded in my first tribute."

She turned her face into the carpet. "You must stop, my love. I cannot bear it. This honour you bestow, it's too much. I do not deserve you, I cannot lay claim to your soul, and I will not demand that you consider my needs alone. You have other family, other responsibilities. We must strive for equality. We cannot spend eternity nude on the floor, making love and countering each other's devotion while tarnishing the maids' innocence."

"Ah, but to try."

"I mean it. I know how much I am indebted to you. I will repay you every day, I swear it. I'll strive to be a good wife. A good…" she blushed. "…lover."

"A merciful goddess," he corrected.

She wailed in annoyance over his laughter. His eyes positively sparkled. "A tigress of a mother as well."

"What a notion!"

"Undoubtedly. You risked everything for a brother. Imagine the fire you'll brandish for our babes."

She melted further back into him. "Yet you questioned my ability to bear them at all," she accused in a playful tone.

She gasped when he cupped her breast with more force, rolling it with authority now that he was learning what she permitted. "Only in jest. I pray God will grant us a dozen children. But," he brushed her damp hair from her neck and buried his nose in her skin. "You nearly broke me in two. When I think of how often I will get to enjoy you—and make those twelve tots in the process…" He felt himself stirring back to life already. For emphasis, he bumped her from behind. "…well."

"Well indeed."

"Shall I endeavour to make a feral mother of my blushing bride?"

In her eyes, he saw mischief pool, blue-green and endless. "What else can we burn?"


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

_The Tenth Night_

The Atlantic Members' Club

"And to his poor soul, gentlemen, we raise a glass."

The smoky room roared with laughter and clinking glasses as three and twenty men raised their brandy to a conspicuously empty chair at the table. It had been made up in fine form, with paper streamers and cards of condolence placed around it. A single name card graced the centre.

JOHN THORNTON

LEST WE FORGET

Slickson soaked in the fellow masters revelry. The club room was cozy, a grand table sprawling across the majority of the space with black wooden chairs crammed into each alleyway created. A sideboard, only accessible to those on one side, was laden with the primer of their entertainment. The rest, they provided in a steady drip of bawdy jokes and stories. Cigar smoke hung low. Sweat peaked through shirt collars and under jacket arms. The air was close, and for latecomers, noticeably pungent. He loved it.

With great flair, he tipped his own glass to Thornton's absence, bowing with exaggeration. _More fool the man who takes a wife_, he thought. _For he has voluntarily joined the ranks of prisoners of war. _

"Ten nights in a row," he heard someone remark in the din of laughter. "Was he domesticated so easily, do you think?"

"Ay, domesticated tis a word," came a reply. "Would you not dip your cock into that princess at every opportunity if'n she lived at yours?"

More uproar as hands slapped the table in agreement. "Ay that! To have to choose between her virgin cunny or stoppering that mouth, it'll keep Thornton busy for weeks!"

"Oh, John!" someone trilled in a feminine voice.

"John, my goodness!" Another joined.

"What a beast I must tame!"

"I thought Northern men had fur!"

"Let me loose, you brute!"

"If ye buy feather beds for the workers, I'll let ye lick my tits!"

"John, _John_!"

It devolved into more howls of mirth. Slickson as loud as any of them.

"Ah, but she needn't lower herself to our level as she once might 'ave. I heard that old goat laid fifteen thousand pounds on her, God rest his soul."

"And deed on the mill as well. Thornton went from pauper to jammy bastard in one kiss and a patched-up marriage."

"Ay, you'd think there'd been a babe on the way, for all the hurry they were in."

"A fifteen thousand pound babe, so a heavy one at that."

"Happy to make either."

More roars. More slamming the table. Brandy slopped on its surface and more glasses clinked carelessly together.

The conversation settled back into talk of trade and town business, but many a man there could not help but wonder at the nightly activity at the Marlbourgh's abode. While cotton prices were argued, more than one man silently cursed Thornton's good fortune. A beautiful, impertinent, wildly rich minister's daughter had argued her way into that man's bed. All of them had noticed the sweet, bright-eyed woman when they all first met her at the Thornton's annual dinner party. In her pale blue dress, glossy hair, proud bearing, and fair skin that advertised a healthy young person in her prime, she made an impression on a man.

When she spoke, she had ruined it.

She did not flutter. She was not demure. She did not laugh with their stories, instead questioning the details. She spoke with authority on philosophy and science, correcting when they themselves ventured into those topics. She was not won over by impressive words and certainty. When she smiled with those full lips, it was clear the men were being humoured, not flattered. It simply would not do.

What a pleasure it must be to set a woman like that right. To be her master in all ways. To take her money and her quim in whatever amount ye pleased. Oh sure, the majority of them were married, their wives also daughters of tradesmen who had prospered. They dressed the part, and were dutiful in the ways of Milton women. They understood their place, which was to showcase good Milton fabrics on their persons and not ask questions of things they were incapable of understanding. They were happy with this arrangement.

But Miss Hale, a sweet Southern rose whose ignorance of their ways was only outmatched by her audacity, was a particular prize.

And since they were men of a rougher cut than her London dandy friends, the full arsenal of sexual activity was no mystery to them.

Many hoped John fucked that saucy mouth of hers on an hourly basis. If opinions continued to grow between those plump lips, then it was her husband's duty to salt that pert garden with come until only smiles and agreeable conversation flourished. Others thought of how horrified she'd be if fucked from behind. Surely a duchess with her nose so high in the air would faint at the humiliation of grovelling on her hands and knees while presenting her ass like a mare to a stud. What a brute he could be, indeed, rutting as hard and fast as he pleased. And should she have the terrible sense to complain…well. Her ass is right there for the punishment, is it not? To be slapped and fucked in equal measure until some semblance of womanly submission entered her head.

And then, once he'd had the pleasure of breaking her in, a man could stow the rod and fuck that tight little cunt for more recreational purposes. Why, with the mill so close, Thornton could even indulge several times a day. If the mood struck him, he need only cross the courtyard, catch her, flip her skirts, pump her full up, and leave before the whistle blew. And little Miss Hale could do nothing but thank him for his attentions and apologise for not yet brewing a child like she ought with so many opportunities generously given to her.

At these fantasies of another man's wife, more than one cock stiffened under the table.

It was another reason entirely that Thornton did not deserve his own bloody luck. For when their parties at the club grew too rowdy for even a drinking establishment, the men often moved to Milton's only brothel. Here, a man could broaden his horizons in all manner of speaking, or simply employ the old tried and true. Most all of them had partaken at one time or another. Save Thornton. Oh ay, he smiled at their offer and their jibes, and did not judge his fellow masters for their carnal pursuits, but never had he ever joined them. They gave him no small amount of grief for it too. Wasn't as though he had dragon of a wife at home to fear or a sweetheart who temporarily deflated his cock for other women. Nay, Thornton's only mistress was his mill. Why it preoccupied his thoughts to the point of living like a monk, his colleagues never understood. Cotton was a daily pursuit. Women and drink owned the night.

Perhaps that was the problem. The man was so backed up with spunk and frustration that his new wife was the only outlet he'd allowed himself. Poor girl. To think she'd been merely taken in by a pretty face and Northern charm, not realising her duties would see her nethers battered, swollen and dripping by a man too far gone to show restraint. How eagerly they awaited the next formal dinner, when her arms and décolletage were on display. How many bruises would be peeking from beneath her gown? How many outlines of open hands and small punctures from teeth? Her beauty would be just as it always was, made more appealing by the humility these marks would have enforced.

Time would tell.

Someone reached out and lit a tallow candle amidst the shrine left for the newlywed.

Of course Thornton's ass had vacated the club chair. It was no doubt buried between the legs of his wealthy saviour.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

Marlborough House Kitchen

On the wedding night, Jane had only followed Agnes because the other young maid had laughed at her friend's blush.

"Arencha curious, Jane?" she giggled, whispering tightly in her ear. Not that anyone would hear or even spy them this deep in the pantry while the party was in full swing on the floor above.

"No," Jane lied, hoping her red ears were hidden well enough by her cap. "t'isnt our business anyway what the master and mistress do."

"May not, but me ma told me that men an' women get naked as Adam on their wedding night. That they rut like the dogs in the street! Can ye imagine! The mistress allowing tha sorta thing!"

Indeed, Jane had trouble believing it. Her knowledge of coupling was gathered from animals and the transacted fucks that whores sold at night in the Princeton District. Frightening affairs where women lifted their skirts for two coins, bent over a horse post and allowed some drunk to batter her from behind for a mortifying but mercifully short minute or two. It never lasted long. And the women took nothing away from the experience except the money and occasionally a limp. Jane had only seen these encounters when she was younger. Once hired by the Thorntons and given a room of her own at the house, she made sure she was never on the streets after nightfall. She'd heard stories aplenty of women havin' it done to them for nothing if they were caught unawares.

She ached for Miss Margaret. A lovely lady the likes of her did not deserve such treatment.

Agnes poked her cheek. "Gone red, ya have. Shall we sneak up tonight and see if gentlefolk do it different?"

"Lord, no!"

"Come on, ya simple chick. They'll never know. Too busy, I suspect. And the key is never kept in the lock."

Jane gasped at the suggestion. Listening at the door is one thing. Looking through a keyhole! Agnes must be mad.

The other girl tossed her head in defiance. "I'm going, be a prig if you like. But I plan ta marry Jimmy one day and I want to see what all the fuss is about. Dogs in the street will not be ma teachers!"

Agnes turned on her heel and strode into the main kitchen to attack the ever-growing stack of dishes piling up. Jane silently joined her, rinsing as Agnes washed.

And so she was talked into such an ungodly romp. The guests took their sweet time and left an indifferent mess behind them. The new mistress had been kind enough to let the maids worry about it tomorrow, as it had been a busy day for all and surely they were ready for bed. Another pang of guilt struck Jane at her thoughtfulness. Such a sweet lady! But Agnes would not be shamed out of her plans. So when the elder Mrs. Thornton disappeared and the two lovers made their quick ascension, Agnes waited twenty minutes before she led their slow creep up the servants' stairs.

The landing was dark, the master having blown out the candles in their wake. Agnes held a single candlestick, but even that felt unnaturally bright given their impending deed. They moved slowly in unison, knowing each squeaky floorboard and avoiding it with skill. Agnes was the first to reach the door. Holding her hand out in silent halt, they perked their ears. If no sound issued from the master's room, they would beat a hasty retreat. They were stealthy, but their presence would be detected if the occupants were still and alert. They needed their quarry distracted.

"Do you approve?" The mistress's voice was only slightly muffled by the thick oak.

"God yes, woman."

Distracted they indeed were.

Agnes set the candle well away from the door, knelt and eagerly stuck her eye to the keyhole.

Jane watched her as friend's eyes rounded and her hand clapped to her own enormous grin. "_He's naked!_" she more mouthed than whispered, her eyes wide and black in the meagre light.

Jane's mouth dropped. Surely she couldn't be certain! Wouldn't they be buried in the bed covers, sparing each other the mortification of their nudity? Jane surged forward and put her own eye to the small speck of light.

What she saw scandalised her. Not abed at all, the master stood tall near the fireplace, not a stitch to be seen over his skin. The mistress was even more shocking, clothed but lowered to her knees before him. The masters column was terrifying, more so because far from removing her eyes and her mind away from it, the mistress cradled it in her hand like a kitten. Sweetly. Lovingly. Her unbound hair flowed like a river down her shift as she did the unthinkable and kissed the master along his leg and hips, ending with a gentle kiss on his member that had him straining and gritting out praise through his clenched teeth.

Jane had worked for the master for near two years now. In that time, she'd never never seen anything more than his hands. Never heard anything more than his angry bark at his family and servants. Only his mother ever seemed to pull a kinder word or softer look from him. But even them were rare. But ever he was wound tight, locked deep in himself, removed from friendly overtures or signs of affection.

The man in the room was not her master.

He was beautiful. He was vulnerable. He did not stand over a subject, but rather offered himself as sacrifice. Air sliced into Jane's lungs, cold and painful.

They were suddenly hurling angry words at each other, the master having flung himself to the other side of the room. Agnes had both fists to her mouth, hunched on her knees, listening with baited breath and trying not to laugh.

Jane felt no laughter in her chest, rather a wild, unknown fear. Some ache clenched her lower regions and she stifled a gasp.

_This were no dogs in the street_.

The mistress accused him of breaking a promise and yanked her own shift free, throwing it into the open grate.

Now both stood across the room as naked as babes and angry as hissing swans.

Jane dropped low. She could bear no more. Agnes quickly used her lowered shoulders to vault herself back into position, impatient to see. Jane could feel her hand pressed into her back, how it shivered with silent laughter at the scene.

Jane heard the mistress cry out followed by a solid thump to the floor. The master asked how his column had tasted. The lady answered sugar. He then proceeded to return her wonton behaviour and make her moan.

"My God, you taste like lemon tart."

Jane heart spiked painfully in her chest.

_This were no whore's rut in a dark alley._

The mistress called in true distress now, using his given name as she wailed as if in pain but clearly not so. The master offered the bed. The lady refused. He kindly worried he may yet hurt her. She only urged him on. He obeyed, and Jane knew the moment they joined when both moaned as if the most tormented itch finally met relief. The master once again offered tender concern. The lady simply demanded more.

Jane heard the eager slap of flesh, the deep pull of the master's praise, the mistress's breathy grunts as she accepted a man's presence for the first time.

"Look!" Agnes hissed above her. "You hafta see this!"

Jane didn't want to. The last thing she wanted to witness was this intimate ritual. But Agnes and her own mortified awe drove her back up to the hole.

The two were prone on the floor, the mistress splayed wide and wild while the master plowed hard and firm between her slim legs. Jane's heart stopped again. He was staring at the door, his angry, chilly eyes cutting straight through her. He was accusing her without seeing her, she instinctively knew the hole was too small to give her up. Still, he knew they were not alone. With his famous scowl in place and a growl deep in his throat, the master pumped harder into the small, fine lady beneath him. She keened and petted him. Kissed him. Begged him not to stop while rewarding his savagery with soft, hungry limbs pulling him tighter.

He uttered some filthy compliment and Miss Margaret froze as if slapped, her eyes screwing shut and a high scream rounding her lovely lips. Her whole body arched up in a violent bow, successfully caging a man twice her size.

The master fared no better, ramming down and screaming like a man on fire. Their hips stuttered and gripped together, as if they had minds of their own. He finally collapsed, his interest in the door vanishing as his wife fulfilled her very first duty to sate his needs.

Slowly, Jane pulled back again, letting the darkness fall across her face.

Agnes, having heard the finale, finally let a giggle escape. Jane reached out and yanked a strand of her dark hair to shut her up. Without another look, she stood and tiptoed away, not caring if Agnes followed. Darkness swallowed her and she was glad.

She felt burned up inside, as though what she'd spied had put coals in her belly. Agnes continued to giggle and gawk about the whole thing, but Jane didn't hear her. In her young mind's eye, she could not escape her first view of two naked adults, pressed lips to toes together, revelling in each other as if brown sugar and lemon tarts were actually baked into their skins.

She'd never seen nothin' like it. The shame she felt in a room where there was none. To trespass onto somethin' not meant for her, yet strangely too beautiful not to want to peek. A hard, flinty man turned soft and gentle, only to turn hard again at his lady's wish. A highborn daughter of a man of God turned wild and reckless beneath him.

Jane ignored Agnes' goodnight and went straight to her small room. Fully clothed, she fell into bed, knees to her chest.

She would never again haunt the second floor after dark.

It, like the streets below, were filled with carnal delights and horrors that maids best avoided until their own hearts were stolen.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Despite their disgusting descriptions, the men at John's club were right about several things.

The first being that he had never partaken in a brothel's education.

The second, directly following the first, is that he had never had the agonising choice between the temptations of a woman's sex or her soft, eager mouth.

The third, he could not pry himself from her happy embrace. All other activities had lost their limited appeal when compared to her.

The fourth, he did need her several times a day, often so urgently that the bare minimum of clothing was pushed aside so that they might find some hard, fast relief. And the young Southern rose did indeed thank him for his attentions and hope that these many opportunities would allow her to honour him with an heir very soon.

Indeed, the only inaccurate prediction made was who bore the marks of these constant couplings. Margaret's skin, far from battered and blue, was as clear and unbroken as the day she and Thornton had met. Rather it was John himself who happily endured injury from his impassioned lover. The maids had frowned in confusion over the last many weeks, as they had prepared for the possibility of cleaning blood, but not from the back of the master's shirts. The red spotty lines, running down each shoulder, were a mystery to their teenage eyes. Just as Margaret had cooed and apologised profusely at the dark discs decorating his hips and ribs where she'd gripped him, looking instead as though punched several times over. He had laughed at her chagrin and cuddled her close, whispering that he only wished they were tattoos instead of bruises that healed. They meant that he pleased her, hence the marks were badges of pride.

But mostly, those fools were perfectly right about how the pair spent their time together.

One such day included a bright, crisp spring morning. Word had come from Fanny and Watson that they'd be joining the Thornton household for dinner that evening.

The elder Mrs. Thornton huffed in annoyance. "A fine amount of notice they give. I won't put on any old meal for that pair lest I hear about its inadequacies for weeks after." She made an impatient gesture at Margaret. "Go tell your husband to be home sharpish. No dallying over the books tonight, neither for work nor avoiding his sister. If we must endure so must he."

Margaret grinned, "I'll inform him directly."

As she walked through the dining hall towards the door, she picked up a blush apple from the fruit bowl on the table as she hurried past.

The yard was busy as ever, A fresh shipment of raw cotton bales were loaded onto the dock while dingy men piled them higher off the cart. In their shirtsleeves, their muscular upper arms sweated through the thin material, the holes showing their grey-smeared skin beneath.

Margaret shivered. John spent many years tossing bales. She never would have guessed before their wedding night, when he'd stripped himself so unceremoniously, that such muscles would be present. It had been a fascinating transformation to witness, her well dressed magnate changing his spots to reveal the pale David beneath.

The men tipped their caps to the mistress. She quickened her pace.

She found him in his office. His elbows spread over his desk, his hand stained black and scribbling madly while his dark head hovered too close to his task. The sound of a pen nib scratching too hard against the surface filled the room. John owned not one single possession that he did not treat harshly. Everything he wielded was a tool for a task. If the tool failed, it was replaced and forgotten. Clothing. Machines. The pieces in his home. And until Margaret, the workers in his mill. She held her breath as she watched from the open door. She'd never have believed it possible for one man to change so much. That love and goodwill could flourish in a cold heart when simply given affection and warmth.

Her grip tightened on the apple in her fist.

She cleared her throat.

John glanced up, his formidable scowl in place until he saw his visitor. Just like that, the ice melted and her warmblooded sweetheart smiled, wide and open. "Margaret."

Would her name ever sound like anything other than an erotic roll of syllables in that dark pitch?

"John." She deliberately whispered his in that soft, delicate lilt that made a tendon tick at his throat, just below his ear. It thrilled her knowing that he was just as susceptible. He too had never had his Christian name caressed so brazenly by the opposite sex. She smiled sweetly.

"The Watsons are to dine with us this evening. Hannah forbids you to work or hide out. You must be home by six o'clock or face her wrath."

He did not move from his sprawl, save to drop his pen. His head was lowered, his eyes impaling her from across the room. "And what of my goddess? Would I incur her displeasure as well?"

Margaret stuck out her lower lip. "For every minute you work late on any day, for any reason, I am displeased."

He drew a hard, slow breath through his nose. "As am I."

Margaret stepped into the fire-warmed room, closing the door behind her and leaning into its cool plane. John could not see as she turned the key in the lock behind her back. Instead, his gaze fell to her other hand clutching the fruit.

"For me." He asked a question, yet he sounded certain.

She raised her brows, shaking her head. She walked forward, shielding the apple in both hands before her chest. "Not at all."

She raised it to her lips and took a bite. She came to a stop on his side of the desk, leaning against it while he pulled back, chair scraping and opening his posture towards her. She continued to stare at him expectantly. She did not chew, rather holding the small piece on her tongue.

Slowly, glaring at her with a small, predatory grin, he rose from his seat. "But I like…" he raked his eyes down her light blue dress. "…apples."

She made no comment, simply held her prize on her tongue and blinked at him. John silently cursed how charming his new wife was. Here they were, just six weeks married, and she had managed to turn him from a frightful thundercloud of a man and master into a trembling, infatuated schoolboy. Her blue eyes teased as she silently dared him to do something about how cute he found her.

He leaned in, slamming both hands on either side of her on the desk. "Give it to me," he demanded against her lips.

She smiled. She kissed him. She opened her mouth and gently proffered the piece onto his own tongue. He took it and bit down. Tart juice exploded in his mouth and passed to hers as she sucked his lower lip. He groaned, the woman was setting off that dangerous reaction in him once again. Where he didn't know if he wanted fall to his knees and weep into her skirt or smash furniture into tinder. Where he didn't understand how she managed to break him without even trying. Where she riled and dazzled him, leaving him breathless. He stood taller, taking their kiss to his higher advantage, stepping closer so their fronts touched and their skins buzzed under two sets of clothes.

Damn it all that his perfect match unravelled his mind like a broken spool. He had no use for broken things.

"I want you," he whispered into her mouth. "This bite tastes like here." He pressed his hand into her corset, just beneath her breasts. She giggled and shook her head. "You can't have that."

"But I want it."

"Then bring simpler ladies' dresses into fashion, sir. The current style forbids easy trespass."

He gasped when soft, seeking fingers played over his obvious erection. "Unlike men's," she finished.

His head pulled slowly, unnervingly to one side, his pupils sliding the length of his eye to keep her trained under his glare. She returned it. Her fingers began to move in the faintest circles.

"I want you," she whispered. She slowly moved her mouth to his jaw, pressing her soft lips into the black stubble covering the sharp angle. "The apple is yours. If you give me something sweeter." Another small kiss, following the bone. She set the apple on the table, opening the negotiation.

"I should expect such a shocking offer from a woman in trade."

"I'm learning quickly."

"My men are below."

"The door is locked."

He snorted, lifting his chin against his better judgement, encouraging her journey to his high collar. His eyes slid to half mast. Margaret, he had learned, loved kissing. And he, he had learned, was powerless under her lips.

"They'll wonder at your visit."

"I'm your wife. I brought you refreshments." She reached his ear. She touched her tongue to it. "You very kindly gave me one in return."

At that, his eyes closed completely. He broke under her spell. "Where?"

She tugged at his jacket lapels, yanking him closer. "Sit."

"I won't be able to—"

"Ssshhh," she nibbled on his neck. "This is what I want. Give it to me."

John gritted an angry curse as the thought of his wife wanting him threatened to burst a seam below. She laughed into his throat. "That means I win," she crowed at his tell, pushing him back toward his slim wooden chair. He half fell into it, keeping her lips rather than taking care. She eagerly followed, holding onto the armrests as it was her turn to kiss from above.

"Please free yourself," she whispered.

John snarled and her lips fell to his teeth. "I can't reciprocate."

"Later," she promised.

He yanked at his trouser's buttons until loose, flaying the material open wide across his hips. His shirt obscured all. Margaret lowered to her knees and with fingers far more dexterous than his own, started with its lowest buttons and opened four of them, parting the final barrier between her and her demand. Her breath caught as he sprang free. Now that she had taken every night to study her husband in every delicious detail, she no longer thought it an odd occurrence. Just a welcome one.

She looked from it to John's eyes. His facial muscles were locked in anticipation, but his eyes remained soft and yearning. It made no sense, really. They joined several times a night. Often again in the morning. Why this need burned so hotly between them despite constant relief was a mystery. He reached to stroke her face with his left hand. Margaret caught it. Examined it. Shook her head. Gently redirected it to the armrest. She picked up his right hand, stained and calloused. John watched in awe as she formed a cup from his long fingers and nuzzled into the dirt of a working man's palm. Her porcelain face lit up with delight and he was again more lost than he could have believed possible.

She put that hand on the other armrest with a look that he understood. He was to keep them there.

In the bright light streaming through the window and no dim candlelight to hide in, Margaret eased her hot, petal-soft lips over the tip of his cock. The wood under his grip immediately creaked. The man flung his head back and slammed his eyes shut. He could not watch a beautiful lady in her sweet blue dress kneel on his factory floor to suck him off. It made no earthly sense. It felt too obscenely good. For her to press herself into ink and dirt and cotton fluff and moan as if he'd showered her in diamonds…

His hips fought to rise up to her mouth. He ordered them still. Instead he moaned, loud and grateful that the clatter of the machines below allowed him some means of expression. She moaned in response, happy to hear his pleasure. He felt the feather-light touch of her fingertips under his sack, tracing the faintest circle as she took more of him in. Damn her and her dauntless curiosity, she had discovered this trick one night. All nights since their wedding found them locked together for hours. She'd never forgotten his reaction to her oral exploration. In their bed, she kept slipping down his body, wide-eyed. Kissing him there, daring to try more than kiss. Her hands joined, and she found that her soft tracings induced a violent response. It was only a matter of time before she caressed him in a certain combination that shattered his mind. Now she was using it against him. Strategically. His thighs went rigid. He yanked his chin back down and made himself look.

An angel graced his lap. She lightly lifted her lips up and down. His thick veins popped out against her inner cheeks, glistening when they emerged, only to disappear into her again. Her eyes were closed in the same dreamy expression as when she kissed him. She hair, in all its chestnut lustre, twisted and braided into her usual elaborate bun, little curls escaping here and there. He was desperate to bury his fingers in its wealth. His nails bit into the woodgrain. He would not muss her and make her walk across the yard looking any different than when she entered.

Her hands fluttered and raked down his thighs. The sounds in her throat were getting louder, more excited. John simply refused to believe she took this much joy in such a one-sided activity.

Then again, this was Margaret. Selfless to a fault.

"I love you so god damned much," he swore hotly, not caring one jot if the Lord struck him down for his profanity.

Warm blue eyes met his. Two small, loving hands gripped him hard at his base, tugging while her mouth sucked with purpose.

He had _not _been schooled. Thus, he was not built for endurance.

His spine snapped backwards into the chair. His head cracked into its backing as he roared while his wife sucked the life out of him. Pulling at him, demanding he give her everything, John could only spasm beneath her ministrations, helpless and loud. He felt her swallow around him. His vision failed and for a moment he was willingly blind.

Sweat beaded under his collar as he trembled, his paralysis fading until he finally collapsed into the seat once again.

Somewhere in the black, he felt her release him, but only so she could kiss his quivering stomach. "I love you. So much." Mr. Hale's daughter would not swear against God, but her sentiment was just as direct.

John cursed this bloody chair for not being a sofa for him to pull her up onto. Instead, ever his diligent wife, she stayed at his knees and gently put his clothes back together until all was as it had been. When she stood, they gazed lovingly at each other.

She took the apple and bit once more, chewing with relish. "Tax. For the transport of goods."

She set it down, its blush skin broken twice.

She kissed his forehead. "Six o'clock."

She walked out.

Remarkable.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

_Harley Street, London_

"What do you think, Margaret?"

Margaret snapped her gaze back to her cousin. Edith looked at her expectantly over her teacup. Margaret glanced around the table. Bright sunlight fell across four other young women's faces all staring at her. She swallowed.

"My apologies, Edith. What was your question?"

Edith grinned conspiratorially at her well-dressed companions. "She's still a newlywed, ladies. You must forgive Margaret for her thoughts wondering to Milton at every opportunity."

The others tittered behind their gloved hands. Margaret was already struggling to recall their names. Charlotte, Angeline… Katherine? Susan? Edith's friends had called 'round for the express purpose of meeting this mysterious relation. A daughter born of a love match, a cousin forced to decamp to the godforsaken North thanks to her departed father's pride. Now, a rich heiress who suffered the godforsaken North by choice, to toil alongside a cotton tradesmen of all unlikely things. Gossip abounded when Edith informed her acquaintances that Margaret would be visiting to help her prepare for the captain's second child while he was away at sea. Edith needed her cousin's steady head before pressure and hormones drove her mad.

Edith could not have fathomed that Margaret had fretted a great deal over her reply. Margaret did not want to leave Milton. Milton meant John. John meant everything. And since John was not able to abandon his post at the mill for the next two months at least, he could not join her. He had laughed at her angry pout. "I was not invited anyway, darling," he pointed out.

Margaret didn't care. As she looked at these women she didn't know, floundering in a conversation she wasn't listening to, she was more annoyed than ever that she'd left his side.

Edith took pity on her. "I asked what you thought of the name Athos for a boy? From _The Three Musketeers_? I do so love that story."

Margaret's frown smoothed over. "I think it's lovely. And for a girl?"

The women all looked at each other, grinning. Edith gave her coaxing look. "Rebecca? You said you approved."

"Oh," she felt ridiculous. Why was she here? Edith had friends and maids to spare! She did not need her newlywed cousin to come all this way simply to be one hen of six! Her smiled felt strained. "I'm so sorry, Edith. You're right, I'm distracted. I slept poorly," she added an acceptable reason.

"La! You cannot fool me, Margaret." She crooked her finger at her friends and dropped her voice. "You should have seen her on her wedding day. She could have been alone for all she saw! So long as John was there, that was all she noticed!"

They all giggled.

The who might be Susan said, "Edith did say he is fearfully handsome. Dark as a gypsy and twice as fierce!"

Then possibly Katherine? "You must love him mightily to leave Edith all alone! And to leave London society behind! How do you possibly fill your evenings?"

_With John_. Margaret blushed and quickly looked away at such an unbidden answer.

But they saw. Their shrill laughter exploded.

She reddened even further, not enjoying being their sport.

Edith smiled kindly, patting her swollen belly. "If he's anything like the captain, then surely at least one evening a week is spoken for."

The women inhaled to laugh even more, nodding in agreement.

Margaret's eyes rounded in shock. "One evening a week? Surely not."

Edith nodded enthusiastically. "Since our wedding night. Can you imagine? Some nights he's content with just holding each other, but others…" she looked away with dramatic effect.

Margaret slowly glanced around the table at the four other women. All married. All in their twenties just like her. "And, do you all find it so? With your husbands? This…time table?"

They all cast their eyes around the room in practiced style, looking for eavesdroppers they knew were not there. "Why yes! For the first year at least. Now that we have three years to our marriage, I'm given peace for several weeks at a time."

"True true! My Stephen was a brute at first. Sometimes even two or three times before Sunday! But mercifully the urgency has dulled." She held her hands apart about five inches.

They all giggled harder behind their lips, not showing their teeth as was the proper way. Each went around the circle, blushingly holding their hands between four and six inches apart before devolving into fits.

"What about you?" Possibly Katherine asked, wiping her eyes with lace that she made sure all could see the fineness of. "As the most recent bride among us, are you required to perform your duties so often as that?"

She stared at their vapid, expectant gazes. Her eyes wandered to their fine frocks. To the affected way they held their cups and their postures.

She did not know these women. She did not approve of their artificial ways, nor their sordid interest in her bedroom.

"Three, usually."

"A week!" They all giggled.

"A night."

Their laughter turned to a collective gasp. Five mouths dropped open, horrified.

Margaret took a causal sip of her tea. She calmly set down her cup and played the game. Hands nine inches apart.

They all took in more air on top of the breath they were already holding.

"My lord! Margaret…"

"But…but what of…".

"Are you? I mean, you couldn't possibly…"

"Is he forcing himself upon you, sweet cousin?" Edith leaned forward. The game was forgotten. She held her hand across the table, reaching out in sisterly concern. Clouds had fallen into her eyes, followed quickly by anger. "Shall I have the captain speak with him?" She was already thinking of pleading with her husband to use more than words. That Northern rake had already done a fine job of seducing her Margaret away with who knew what sort of promises. She'd thrown herself into his power with no family or protection of any description.

Margaret gave her a small smile, understanding her but not correcting her.

Edith offered her other hand, beseeching. "You married him three months ago, Margaret. Three months! To think you've had to endure every night! All night! And with such a…" she didn't even have the words for the terrifying space between her cousin's dainty hands. "…_monstrosity_."

Margaret did not lean forward to meet Edith, but she did take one hand, squeezing it tenderly. "You misunderstand."

"I do not! That man has…_put himself inside you_…two hundred and seventy times by your account! Since March! Do I misunderstand that?"

The ladies, ever mindful, put their fingers to their mouths in synchronicity.

Margaret's smile was wistful. "Only slightly. You see, that sum only accounts for the nights."

"Now, Margaret. Either this a terribly unfunny joke or you must return to London immediately and we will send for your things to be collected from that man. He's no gentleman if he's making such demands of you. And you should not forbear such unspeakable treatment, as a lady. We will take care of this immediately. We'll send Henry as your proxy. We can even ask him what the particulars are for an annulment! We can free you of him permanently! There's no harm in finding out what the law requires for you to—"

"You misunderstand," Margaret repeated. "I'm quite content with my marriage to John Thornton."

"That is not what you said!" wailed Edith.

"I said nothing, cousin. You asked how often I made love with my husband and I answered you honestly. You intimated the size of your husbands' manhoods and I responded—honestly—with John's. I would say he has reached for me in our short marriage hundreds of times. However the other half occurred because I reached for _him_."

The room was more silent that it had probably ever been with so many people present. Margaret found it refreshing. A stray certainty came to her just then. She would be on a North-bound train first thing tomorrow morning. The thought had no more appeared and Margaret felt her mind cut adrift on a pleasant current, taking her far away from this place.

She loved Edith. She would always be her family. But she was not her life. And these strangers who only came to gawk held no interest to a woman who spent her days as a force for commerce and laughing into her brilliant husband's kisses. Coming here was a mistake. She no longer fit in this world.

The realisation unmoored her tongue.

"You see, I am not simply in love with John. I am intoxicated by him. I ache for him. We join endlessly at night because we've spent the day feeling ill out of each other's embrace. We despise the sunrise that will force us back into our clothes and conventions that keep us apart for so many hours. He kisses me like he will die without me. He clings to me like he lost me in another life. He calls me his goddess, and while I chide him for it, I know he believes it. He would do anything I ask. Sell his very soul. Break his body in half. And because of this, I would gladly do the same for him."

More blessed silence.

Margaret wrapped her other hand around her cousin's and smiled serenely. "But most selfishly, I bed him simply because it feels so damned good."

She rose from her seat. She walked away from the latest scandal of her own making. She calmly went to her room and packed her things. She later hugged Edith hard that night, insisting to her horrified cousin that all would be well. Margaret did wonder if she would tell Aunt Shaw about their discussion. Or Henry. An unseemly pleasure came from the thought.

Margaret was on the first train heading north the next day. Back to her home.

J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M

Thornton stared bleary-eyed at the ledgers spread across his desk, aware but not seeing. The machines clanged below with their usual gusto, and his workers danced their daily steps in the cotton snow. He saw none of it, rather asking Nicolas mind the floor in his stead.

_Nine days_.

His Margaret had been away for nine days. Edith was with child and needed womanly support. Margaret was the most supportive person in the whole world as far as John was concerned, and a sisterly relation at that. It was natural she attend her.

But much to his horror, in this very short amount of time without his goddess, John Thornton was nearly falling apart.

How had he lived so much of his life without this woman? How had he found pleasure in anything that didn't involve her? Suddenly the life he'd worked so hard to build seemed pointless. His mill was a ceaseless drone of noise. His austere house, furnished in dark colours, felt dead. Margaret's electricity had charged its blackness, and suddenly it hummed, life filling it with intent and heat, like hot coal. With her gone, it had died once again.

His body felt sawn in half.

Never had he felt so bereft. Not even the death of his father and the indigence of his family had felt so empty.

After preferring his own company for over three decades, he felt lonely for the first time in his life. His mind was an unhappy cocktail of anger at himself for his irrational sadness, mourning for his wife's absence, and more anger at everyone else as his temper reasserted itself in her wake. Without Margaret there, settling his soul as only she seemed to know how, irritation sparked with little provocation.

Hannah had declared him a hopeless case and left for several days to visit Fanny. She'd stood over his sulking hunch at the dinner table and demanded he stop acting like a man tragically widowed and pull himself together. His wife was visiting family, not dead. Who was the ridiculous, wallowing poet who had taken over her logical son? No one she wanted to eat supper with, that was a fact. And in a rare act of kindness, she let the servants visit their kin for the week she left. She wasn't about to let John's gloom rule their home, so she saw to it that the larder was stocked with cold meats and fruits, that a bread delivery was made twice a week, and set those three poor women free from his misery.

He'd barely noticed.

To help make the time go faster, he'd thrown himself into his work. He disassembled many of the looms, cleaned them, and put them back together at the end of the shift. It took hours, often well into early morning. He met with new distributors. And made sure his books were up to date nearly to the hour. And when idle time managed to find him, he descended to the docks with the roughest members of his staff, stripped to his thinnest shirt in the summer heat, and tossed bales. This, of all his tasks, gave him the most satisfaction. The sun beat down onto his dark head. Sweat dripped into his eyes and stung him. The rope bit into his fingers and scraped them raw. The weight of the bales made his arms ache. For hours he sawed back and forth-lift, carry, toss, lift, carry, toss. It hurt him and bored him and he was glad for its honesty. Without Margaret, everything was boring. And every minute hurt.

When exhaustion finally took him, he staggered into his dark home, yanked off his filthy clothes and doused himself in cold, soapy water before falling into his empty marriage bed. He'd threatened to skin the maids if they changed the linens. He dove into her pillow, fisting it into a tight ball, inhaling as much as his lungs could hold. The ghost of her skin teased him in the fabric. His body throbbed, shoving into the mattress, wanting a soft heat that it knew was not there.

_Had his bed always been so cold in summer? _

He cursed God, then fell asleep angry.

Now, sitting in his humid office, stripped to his shirt and cravat hanging around his neck, a knock on his office door jolted him.

"What?" he yelled.

A stranger popped his head inside and doffed his cap. "Beggin' your pardon, sir. The lady said I were to collect me fee from the master."

Thornton cursed Fanny for daring to send him yet another bill despite having a husband for that chore. "Tell the lady she has Watson for that foolishness now," he waved him off.

The man looked confused. "Yessir. Shall I go into the house to say so?"

"What the devil are you talking about? Are you not a shop owner here to collect for Fanny Watson?"

"Nah, sir. I brung a lady in me cab to the house 'cross the yard. She said her husband would cover the fare. The master of Marlborough Mill." He paused, worried about testing this unstable man. "Your wife a pretty lady wi' brown hair?"

Thornton blinked. He rose slowly. Pulling his billfold, he produced a sum of money he did not see was too much and pushed it into the cabbie's hands as he walked out the door. He didn't feel the stairs beneath his feet, nor the cobble in the courtyard. He exploded through his front door, running for the stairs and taking them two at a time. His bedroom door was closed. He threw it open and skidded to a halt.

Margaret stood over her open trunk. She jumped at his sudden appearance. She gasped at the sight of him.

Her beloved looked dreadful.

Dark circles marked his eyes. His hair, usually swept back, fell in a black ruffle. His shirt hung from him, his sleeves rolled up, his cravat a simple black strip untied. He stared at her and she felt her heart crack in her chest.

"Margaret." It was not his usual smiling tease. Her name sounded broken and disbelieving.

"John." Comforting. Yearning.

His gaze dropped to her feet and moved upwards. "What has happened? What is wrong?"

At his check for injury, she smiled warm and sweet. "Everything. Edith's house is wrong. Harley Street is wrong. London is wrong. Every room that isn't this one is wrong." She lifted her arms to him. "I was dying."

The space between them disappeared as John launched himself across the room. Her face was engulfed by two large hands and her lips were stolen by a fearsome gypsy thief. Margaret gasped as if she'd been brought back to life after a week of suspended animation. She yanked his shirt, pulling him closer. She hated the feel of soft cotton under her fingers and ripped it apart, buttons scattering. Warm, hard flesh greeted her and she sank her nails into it. John broke their kiss and moaned, clasping his hands over hers on his chest, lowering his head between them, overcome.

Margaret buried her nose into the crown of his head. Smoky soap infused the black strands and tickled her. The scent she would know anywhere filled her up and she nearly screamed with delight. She pushed his shirt off his shoulders. It fell to the ground without resistance and he spun her around, yanking her frock loose with no care for where the fasteners ended up. Her skirt and corset were unlaced in violent yanks until she finally struggled free. She turned again, pawing at his trousers while he pulled her shift over her head. Stockings and shoes were lost with no memory of how.

Both nude at last, John grabbed her thighs and pulled her up onto his hips. Margaret locked her elbows behind his head, smashing their lips together in a bruising kiss. John sought no permission, he positioned and sharply buried himself in his wife's eager depths. Margaret bit his lip as she cried out. He tasted blood as he held her open and pumped upward like a madman.

Margaret arched into his desperation, willing her thighs wider, taking greedy relief in her breasts crushed against him. Her whole body had felt too tight in London. With John so big and comforting inside her, she could finally breathe deep. "Don't stop."

John snarled and rutted in a rage. The other piece of his soul had returned. Bonding to her was the only action that made sense. He muttered an apology at its force, his neglected stubble scraping a path from her lips and cheek to her throat. He gave no thought to the marks he'd leave. He sucked at her pulse, demanding it beat against his tongue. "Tell me. Tell me you missed me."

Margaret's eyes rolled up at his command. "I missed you. John, I thought of nothing else but you."

He felt himself losing too much control to stay upright. He walked their mated hug to their high mattress and lowered her to it. Standing deep between her legs, he continued his punishing pace, looking at his sprawled sweetheart as she writhed in pleasure, arms high, breasts bouncing with each hard slap of his hips.

"Tell me."

"I hated sleeping alone," she moaned, her eyes shut tight. "My old room felt like a prison. Cold and empty."

"More."

"The days were agony. People who were not you. Eyes that were not yours. Voices saying my name that I didn't even hear."

"_More_!"

"I wanted you!" she screamed. "Those small-minded women touching their men under sufferance. I was wretched! My beautiful John filled my every thought! Hurt my heart! Wet my thighs! And I could do nothing!"

John roared with pleasure, gripping her knees and opening her more, pounding in rough strokes until that vicious clench around his cock knocked him down into her. Margaret banded her arms around his neck and screamed like her heart truly was breaking. Buried to the hilt, John bit her shoulder and bellowed into that soft skin. Black spots detonated behind his eyes as he came harder than ever before. Margaret's sobbing quieted beneath him to an adorably soft pant. He rubbed his face into her red throat, utterly lost.

With great effort, they moved up to the pillows to rest.

Margaret giggled when he pinned her down and dropped most of his weight on top of her, his shaggy hair cinched beneath her chin, half of his chest, hips and legs blanketing her smaller frame. As if she would disappear again unless caged. He lifted his head and kissed her left breast. "Don't hurt, little one," he whispered to her heart. "I need you whole."

His temple rested against her lips. She had trouble keeping them relaxed, instead pressing kiss after kiss into his hairline. Her hand lifted to his forehead, her fingers sliding deep into the black, following his crown, behind his ear, to his nape. Then started over again.

John rumbled in some happy ether, drugged with sexual fulfilment and physical affection. Her heart thumped against his ear, soothing him back into the gentleman Margaret made him.

Margaret giggled again. What would the Harley Street ladies have said about this? Not home for five minutes before she was chased down and ravished, and all before midday.

Her wandering hands encountered ribs that protruded more than usual. Leaner hips and thicker arms. "My poor darling," she cooed softly. "You haven't been eating. Or sleeping."

"Mother had enough of my moping and left to visit my sister. She cleared the house of servants as well, lest I scare them so badly they give their notice. What food I've scavenged is what they left in their hurry to escape."

"Grump," Margaret accused kindly. "It's none of their fault that I was gone."

"We shan't have to worry about it again. You're never leaving me, not even for a week, so we'll not test my grumpiness further."

She laughed, bubbling beneath him.

He merely cinched his arms more tightly around her, sighing and becoming heavier as peace settled him.

She pressed another kiss into this stubborn, dearest man. "You needn't be concerned. I believe I may have shocked everyone with my exit."

"Oh?" She felt his smile.

"They were babbling about how my soft head was off in Milton and not attending the conversation. They suggested that you might be making demands of me as often as once a week!"

He scoffed against her. "I assume you held your tongue and let them think what they will?"

Margaret smirked. "You married a stranger if you assume any such thing."

"Goodness. I quake to hear your reply."

She shrugged under his warm weight. "I merely stated the truth."

"The truth," he echoed.

"Of course. I lack polish, husband. Too blunt to manage an artful response, you should well remember."

"And this truth consisted of?"

"The number of times we bed each other. And…your size."

At this, he lifted up to stare. "My God. Size?"

"Yes. Your…" she jutted her chin down their bodies. "…size."

"How on earth did such a topic arise?"

"Those ridiculous friends of Edith! I assure you I certainly did not broach it. I had no idea it was even something of note! I assumed all men were—" she cut off, blushing bright.

His brows lifted. She must finish, they said.

"…were as big as you are."

His expression settled back into something smug and insufferable. "And they fall short?"

"Considerably. I think I terrified their wives."

"Mmmm," he purred as he dropped back down. "Good. Feel free to give offence and retract invitations all over the country."

"I assure you, half of London will know about this in a week's time."

"My wife does nothing by halves."

With that, they both laughed, hard and heaving until tears soaked Margaret's lashes. She felt herself stirred again by the strength of him. He was already hardening above her, butting himself into her like a loving cat.

"So. What should a twenty-five year old bride and her thirty-three year old husband do naked in a big house all to themselves?" she asked.

"They should continue to make love until hunger and exhaustion threaten to kill them in their bed." His answer came simply.

She lifted to kiss into his soft lips surrounded by delicious scratchy stubble. "Gladly. No bed makes sense unless you're in it."


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

Thornton's gaze was a thousand miles away.

He stood in their dressing room in front of Margaret's wardrobe. It was open, no doubt as his wife had been emptying her trunk and hanging her clothes back where they belonged after her aborted stay with Edith ended two days ago. As he had come upstairs to wash and dress for dinner, he couldn't help but pause and take in the still-surprising sight of a woman's things so neatly inserted into his personal rooms. Her feminine clothing and her vanity installed in the corner startled him. But far from creating a disharmony that he would have braced for married to anyone else, Margaret's simple collection felt as if it had always belonged.

Her dresses were no exception. Outrageous fortune had not changed her sense of style. She wore simple cuts and colours, slim lines and few trimmings. He liked them, always had. Far from Fanny's dresses that inflated like bellows and flashed colours like a parakeet, Margaret's were a subtler tease to John's eyes. Her blouses and skirts cut closer, outlining the line of her slender arms and delicate waist. When they flared at her hips, John knew damn well it was not from a bustle nor a petticoat, but from flesh. Creams and dark greens and deep ocean blues. His draper's eye appreciated their more complicated dyes. As he admired them, one dress in particular caught his attention.

Amongst the more earnest colours, a bright, icy blue peeked out. An evening dress, it had no sleeves to speak of. The skirt flared a bit more than the others, but not to church bell dimensions as many women preferred. Since there was less of it, the dress was obscured, but that colour… that infuriatingly memorable colour. John was suddenly thrown back into the year before. To the last Thornton dinner party, when his obsession had stood in the middle of the room and gathered every man's eye and small pieces of their hearts. He'd walked away from someone mid-sentence, pulled into her bright orbit. She had smiled. His heart had stopped. She offered her hand, small and soft. When he'd taken it, she closed her other hand around his, cupping it as she would a candle flame. Her hair had been fine as sable. Her bare arms had surely been stolen from the statue of Venus. Her chest had turned his mouth to sand. From his higher vantage, he was privy to the supple swell of her upper breasts, how their skin glowed as if lit from within. He'd kept his glance short, fixing on her eyes and making polite inquires about her mother. But he'd been granted the hellish certainty that Margaret was stunning when nude. The other women in the room showing their same attributes for the appraisal of men were nowhere near as well shaped. Stripped of their artful contraptions, their bodies would not hold their desired configuration. But Margaret?

Someone had interrupted them after only a single moment. He was pulled away. And after a few seconds, so was she. A beautiful woman left alone will not stay so for long. John had cursed it. He had hoped against the odds that they might be seated together at the table, that his mother might have taken pity on him. But no. He'd had Ann Latimer to his left. Margaret was given Bell to hers. Even then, Hannah had been pushing for different outcomes.

As the meal progressed, Margaret was set upon from different directions in the conversation. The women of his family and the men of his profession delighted in taking shots across her bow. She'd held her ground. She'd answered with a spirit and a kindness that had left him feeling proud, shamed, angry, and pleased.

It was a combination he was getting used to with his wife.

He came back to the present and smirked.

_His wife._

He reached out and fingered the fine material. Silk. A lady's dress, to be sure. He pulled it out and away from the others, laying it flat against them all. He felt oddly victorious over this garment. As if it had tortured him on purpose, holding the woman intimately while he would never have the honour. Looking at it now, improper thoughts abounded. Should Margaret ever wear it again some evening, he would be at far more liberty to…

He pulled it from the wardrobe and walked it into their room. He laid it out on the bed. Grabbing a piece of paper from their writing desk, he scribbled a single word and set it on the bodice.

He had not contacted his mother or the servants about Margaret's return from London. He did not plan to. They could return when they wished, until then he would savour his time alone with his wife. And right now he wanted a private viewing of her in all of her once-untouchable glory. _Once._

He walked out, knowing she would ascend soon to freshen up before their meal of cold cuts.

The note would convey his wishes.

_Please._

_-J_

J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M

An hour later found him waiting downstairs alone in the dining room. It was unusually quiet and dark, the table strangely bare. The lack of servant activity robbed the house of warmth and patter. No sound issued that wasn't the two of them and no fires or candles lit on their own. John had set out a buffet on the sideboard, hoping his host skills pleased his sweetheart with offerings that lacked anything cooked. Instead, a combination of raw and cured was laid out: cold ham, grapes, sliced apples, bread, chocolates and wine. It wasn't much, but then, he hoped not to dwell on the fare.

A creak on the step perked his ear.

"Margaret?"

As he watched the main entryway, his mouth fell open in awe. "My God."

A vision stepped into the room. John was transported. That night was suddenly real again. The set of her features and hair, identical to then. Her bare arms and chest lit up in the candlelight and made her all the more spectral. Her brows arched in fine humour, her eyes teasing him for this new game. She did not take a further step. Instead, she curtsied and completed a slow turn, giving him every angle of that stunning dress that made him go rigid under the table.

A gentleman was supposed to stand at the appearance of a lady in a room.

He was a savage with an instant erection. Thus he remained seated.

She took a step towards him. "I take this to mean that you approved of this dress at your dinner party."

She giggled. She was so stunning and sweet and lovely, and so unaware of it all.

He fell into the madness she so easily provoked.

He rose, erection be damned, and strode to her.

She shrieked as he grabbed her waist and vaulted her up onto a seated position on the table's edge. He had meant for this to be a flirtatious meal with his beautiful wife. Now, all he could think about was what this dress had promised him so long ago and never delivered.

He pushed himself into the bell of her skirt, between her legs. He cupped her bare arms and kissed her. He stroked her skin up and down, the wickedness of his actions making her feel somehow softer. Her full lips moved against his in invitation. She was not objecting to being handled this way.

"This dress…this dress is a fever dream," he whispered against her mouth. "Vivid. Cruel."

She made a sweet noise and raised her arms around his neck, sneaking her fingers under his collar and teasing the soft hairs on his nape. "Was I cruel that night?"

"No. You were wonderful. But this dress…" he let his hands slide down her back, up her waist. "Tormented me."

"We barely spoke," her voice broke as he touched her.

"This dress said enough. That its mistress was too fine for me. And I could not have her."

She hummed, kissing him more slowly. Enjoying the silly impropriety of a man between her legs in her fine dress on the same table they supped at.

She tugged him closer, sliding her lips to his ear. "If I had whispered secrets to you in a dark corner that night, as so many have tried to do before me, what would you have done?"

He growled against her neck. She grinned and sucked gently on his earlobe.

"As Miss Hale?" he groaned. "Or as my wife?"

"Which would shock me most?"

"As Miss Hale, I would have been amazed. I would have listened to her every word. And tried not to kiss her as she put her lips to my ear."

"And as your wife?"

His fingers curled around the ribboned fabric at her cleavage and pulled down. Margaret gasped as suddenly her breasts were exposed, sitting high and scandalous atop her bust line. John made some angry, happy noise deep in his chest. Just like he'd known that night (and discovered many nights since), her breasts were flawless. The sight of them, glossy and tipped with pink pearls snapped his restraint. He yanked her closer by the hips, grinding into his own, and tipped her back to gain access. He sucked one perky tip into his mouth, circling her nipple with his tongue. Margaret's hands shot backwards, holding herself up against the onslaught. The small banded sleeves were tight and kept her arms locked to her side. The material bit their flesh. It was uncomfortable and delicious.

"_John_," she moaned.

"_This_," he hissed against her, opening his mouth wide around its plumpness. "This is what I _truly_ wanted that night."

She made some negative sound behind her pressed lips and shook her head, eyes squeezed tightly shut. "You could barely stand to speak to me then."

He switched sides, sucking and nibbling. Her hips ground against his. "I couldn't speak to you for long because if I did, I would have ripped this dress apart."

He gathered great fistfuls of the skirt, his hands sliding under the hem. He was going to find out exactly what was possible at a crowded dinner party with this gown. His forehead fell between the swells and he groaned. She wore nothing underneath. His hands found bare legs, and sliding up their silky lengths met with no undergarments.

"_Cruel_." He dipped a single finger between her thighs. Slick heat greeted him as he petted her outer lips. "How are you always this ready for me?"

She answered in a pretty whine, pushing back on her hands while attempting to ride his fingertip.

A feral thought occurred to him. "Did I excite you that night too?"

"Mm-hm," she affirmed, her lips pressing tighter.

He gave a snarling laugh against her, giving her some relief and sliding his middle finger in, up to his palm. She bucked into his hand, gasping. She also remembered that night. John had cruised through this very room, full of people, like a great shark among tuna. The man who'd drawn her glance against her will, made her blood boil with his cold calculations against human life... was now sharpening her nipples into points, sucking and releasing them with soft, wet pops.

"At our next dinner party, will you wear this dress again? And pull me to a dark corner?" His finger moved gently while the others tickled her folds.

"Yes," she whispered, trembling in his intimate grip.

"Will you tell me secrets?"

"Yes," she breathed.

"In a house full of people, would you allow this?" he kissed her collar bone, teasing below all the while.

"_Yes._"

"Shall I eat you on this table?" he rumbled. "Or fuck you?"

"The second," she pleaded.

"I may eat you still."

"After!" she wailed.

John yanked himself back, booming with laughter. Shucking his jacket, he yanked open his trousers. He pulled her hips to the ledge, finding her bare body under the yards of fabric, hot and ready. Fully clothed, they merged out of sight.

"Goddammit," John gritted out as boiling suction pulled him in. "You are so exquisite."

Margaret fell back to her elbows, the sight of her own bare breasts and bare knees at his hips sending her into some wild place. To imagine they'd escaped to the study, or the library, hearing the din of dozens of people in the rooms next door as she and John fell on each other. It was so wonderfully improper. Silent, rough, locking their teeth against their own moans as the party grew suspicious of their absence.

She anchored her fingers into his trousers and yanked him closer. She threw her head back, baring all to him.

There was no one here tonight, after all. She cried out. John's fingers tightened under her behind, forcing her to spread, driving himself in a violent pattern of withdrawn to fully sheathed.

He roared with pride. She was burning him alive. Pulling him in, drenching him, knowing and wanting no other presence but his.

Lennox and Bell and half the men of England would have betrayed the Queen herself to be where John was now. Married to the woman of their dreams and driving into her perfect body every night. But none of them deserved her. Hells bells, neither did he. But she loved him and he would not dwell on the impossibility of it, not when she held him like this, moaning with pleasure, learning with him all the ways they could fall into bliss.

But this particular experiment proved too much.

John could not withstand the reality of Margaret fucking him in this fantasy dress, upright, in a public room, against all her raise and modesty.

He locked himself against her and screamed. Lightening shot through his body, charring his every last nerve. He unloaded in a prolific burst deep in her womb. Far away, he heard her whimper in disappointment.

"No," he growled, shaking his dizzy head. "I'm not done."

He unhooked her hands from his clothes and closed them around the hem of her long skirt. "Hold this."

He dropped to his knees. He pulled her thighs to either side of his head. She would not be left unsatisfied. He set about devouring his lemon tart.

Margaret's back arched high off the table, a delightful moan escaping her. She had already been so close to release when John met his prematurely. She pressed her heels into his back, urging him.

"My goddess," he muttered against her, diving deep and tonguing hard. There was no need to go slow. She was so wet and desperate that he feared she may not achieve enough friction without overstimulating. Attacking her clitoris, he inserted his index finger into her silky depths. He found his own fluid pooled inside her and snarled like a jealous dog. Margaret sobbed louder, straining up into his mouth.

"_Please_!" she cried. "Just a little more! _Please,_ John, it feels so good!"

His middle finger joined his first. He twisted them gently as they pumped in and out. He brought that sweet little nub between his teeth, nibbling as his tongue battered it behind their line. His free hand pinched very gently along her inner thigh.

Her eyes flew open. A scream that surely rattled every window broke from her throat. Her thighs strangled him, yanking him forward and nearly bashing him into the wooden ledge. He did not relent, licking and fingering until she cried that it was too much. Her legs convulsed around him. He gentled his pace, not stopping, not but driving her hard either. He prolonged her orgasm until she was incoherent, her breath coming out in little hiccups. When he was sure he'd pulled every last string of pleasure out of her, he finally withdrew.

Standing above her, he admired his handiwork. Margaret Thornton was a beautiful mess. Partially nude. Glistening. Gasping for air. Spread on his dining table like a feast. He eased her hem from her steely grasp and gently lowered her skirt. He buttoned himself back up. He leaned, bracing himself above her. "My apologies. You proved too much for me."

She gave a stuttering laugh. "You mock me, sir."

He dipped low, paying homage to each breast with a kiss before pulling her bust line back to its proper place. "Never. I could not hold back, try as I might."

"You rallied admirably."

He took her hand and pulled her into a sitting position. She dove straight for his chest, wrapping her arms tight around his back. He folded her up in his, holding her head to his sternum, amazed that someone so small could shatter his iron-forged heart so easily. He rocked her, playing with her hair.

"May I feed you now? I honestly hadn't meant to grab you this way. I had hoped to tease at first. Flirt and debate over our meal and see if I could win you over, as I had wanted to do that night. I hope I did not shock you."

She hummed under his chin, content with their current position. To be honest, food did not entirely appeal. She smiled against his shirt. "I'm not hungry." She pulled up, looking at him slyly.

He smiled, not seeing her puckishness. "Shall I simply take you to bed?"

"No, sir. You requested I pull you into a corner. That I tell you a secret." She looked around them. "Not much of a corner, I'll grant you, but I'm a lady of my word."

His smile turned indulgent and soft. He cupped her jaw in both hands. "Tell me then. What secrets do you have for me?"

In the small space between them, she crooked her finger, asking for his ear. When he lowered it to her lips, she kissed the shell. "I'm pregnant. In Spring, I'm going to bear your child."


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Hannah Thornton had been called many things over the years, but a blind fool she was certainly not.

Upon her return from Fanny's to the Marlborough home, John had flown out of nowhere, grabbed his mother by both hands and pulled her into the parlour. With wide, lamp-like eyes, he announced that Margaret was with child. There was a bright, fearful joy radiating from his face. She'd never seen the like her on her eldest. After a few seconds watching it, she gave a slow, considered nod. It was wonderful news, after all. Certainly inevitable.

For all of her objections, Hannah could not deny that the two young people living under this roof were meant to be together.

Lord knows, she'd never say as much. They were unseemly enough without encouragement.

But there had been an instant, all-consuming transformation when John had returned that day from the train station with impetuous Margaret in tow. What on earth they'd been thinking, travelling alone together and sending Mr. Lennox back with news of Margaret's flight? Hannah half-wished they'd carried straight on the train to Gretna Green. Better scandalously married than scandalously flitting about town with no luggage or explanation of their sudden physical closeness.

But it was done, the gossip had eased, and John was a different man for it. There were the immediate changes, of course. John now smiled constantly. As she moved through the house on any given day, she would hear his laughter. Somewhere in the house, its great boom was often followed by a much smaller giggle before both hushed up. She started to amuse herself by pretending to come across them unaware. If she walked quietly by the library, she would find them standing together, no space between them to speak of. Margaret would be curled into his chest, eyes closed, hands stroking down his broad back. He would have her bound up, one long arm around her shoulders while the other hand cupped her head to him. This was a common sight, the two of them wrapped up tight and gone from the world. They did not see Hannah unless she wanted them to. Occasionally, she'd sweep in just to see their reactions. Margaret, to her credit, pulled away to a respectable distance. Her son, however, in blatant defiance of his previous self, kept her hand and tugged her back, all while looking at his mother without shame. Margaret was his prize, he would not relinquish her even for company's sake. She would give some reason for her interference, they would answer, she would leave again. Out of the corner of her eye as she shut the door, they were already back in each other's arms.

Another time was witnessed quite by accident. Hannah had stayed up later than the couple, wanting to finish a new set of table napkins that required a complicated stitch. As she passed their room on her way to bed an hour later, she noticed their bedroom door was ajar. The large mirror across the room reflected into their dressing room. Standing in the dark, spying from a tiny crack, Hannah could see them sitting at Margaret's vanity. The young woman sat on her stool facing the vanity mirror as any woman would at the end of an evening. John, however, sat at a desk chair situated behind her. Both were in their night clothes. His long legs straddled her smaller form. Margaret's face was one of pure fascination as she watched her husband through the mirror. He was taking her hair down- a slow, meticulous search for pins and combs and the unraveling of braids. Each pin would be placed in their dish, the only sound in the room was their _pink pink pink_. Piece by piece, it fell apart into shiny waves. It softened Margaret's features, almost to childlike dimensions. John then lost his concentration, gripped its bounty in his fists and pulled. Margaret gasped softly, her head pulled back as John buried his face in its softness, groaning as he breathed her in. John clasped his hand over her throat, his thumb stroking her jaw. She fell back against him, trusting him completely.

It looked violent.

It was extremely gentle.

His mother watched in quiet surprise. John had never been a romantic man. Passionate, certainly, but towards commercial and philosophical pursuits only. He'd never had a way with women, merely a face that attracted them. He was unsophisticated in that respect, with no interest in learning the art of flirtation. Looking at him now, no one would have guessed he hadn't spent a lifetime in his study of women. Seemingly on pure instinct, he seduced Margaret with a touch. He suddenly harboured magic, and Margaret was perfectly bewitched. Who could fathom how she stayed immune for so many months before, but now, through their own private understanding, she was lost to him.

Hannah retreated, struggling to remember any such tenderness in her own marriage so many years ago.

Once in her room, she often cursed God for leaving her with perfect hearing in her august years. The two were ferocious lovers. Even from her remove at the back of the house, their cries would filter through the many walls. There was a savagery to them, an uncontrollable appetite lasting until dawn. She knew her son would have needs, and John was more than taken care of in that respect. And Margaret? Who on earth ever heard of a woman relishing her duties as much as she did?

But then, there were the subtler changes as well. She noticed that the softness in her son's eyes did not harden when his wife left the room. When he stared off into space, his expression was peaceful, unlike before when mill matters creased his brow and turned his mouth into a steel trap. Hannah was greeted with more kisses to her cheek than ever before. On his walks across the yard, he'd stop to chat to the workers about topics other then their tasks. He took meals with the men in their sup hall. One day Margaret put a few sweets in his pockets, then whispered to the working children. He roared with laughter as they swarmed him on the dock, his wallet and watch untouched as twenty urchins frisked him and four left with a treat. From that day, he would often carry candy, doling it out only to those cheeky enough to ask.

Her son, whom she'd always known to be honourable and good, was now openly kind. She had to admit, even if only to herself, their world seemed a better place with Margaret Hale in it.

And now she carried his babe.

The way they carried on, she was surprised Margaret hadn't conceived their first night together.

Now John stood before her with his news settling between them. Hannah finally spoke. "Congratulations, son. I'm delighted."

He snorted a small laugh, looking down at their joined hands. "It's a miracle, mother."

"Hardly. Borderline overdue, if you ask me."

He laughed again, not rising to the bait, and brought both her hands to his lips. He kissed them, hard and grateful. "She'll need your help."

"She has it, of course. I'll not let my first grandchild suffer a moment's neglect."

"Her pregnancy, mother. I worry…. With her own mother gone and Edith confined, she only has us…"

"We're more than enough, son." She felt his unspoken fear in the sweat of his hands. "We won't lose her, ya know that."

He exhaled in a sharp blast, his thought said aloud. "What if it goes wrong? What if she—"

"She's _young_. She's strong. And neither God nor the devil himself would cross that stubborn girl. She'll bear you a healthy babe and live to bear more. In five years' time your own children will be fighting for sweets with the lot of them."

He crushed her hands into his lips, nodding against them. It hurt slightly. Hannah didn't notice.

"Where is she now?"

"Helping Mary cook in the sup hall." He opened his eyes to gauge her reaction.

Hannah felt him brace for her criticism. It pained her more than her hands, his surety that she would object. Instead, she dipped her chin. "Good. She should keep busy. You may have married a lady but at least you didn't pick a layabout, confining herself to bed eight months before the date and complaining the whole time. She needs to keep her strength. Birth is not for the timid. Make sure she takes exercise as well. Walk with her when you can."

John's grip relaxed. He shocked her by pulling her into a tight hug. They had not embraced since his youth. Her hands rose hesitantly to pat him on the back twice.

He pulled away, finally looking embarrassed. "May…? Oh lord, may I… still…?"

"Bed her? Don't be daft, or course ya can. She's with child, not turned to glass."

"Mother!"

She dusted his arms from hers and and waved him away. "You asked, so don't be prudish. Yours is a love match. Margaret will not tolerate you imposing celibacy. She needs you close. She takes solace and strength from you. I'm pleased she finally understands your worth, and draws upon it." She looked away sheepishly. "And she also seems to do you good."

He beamed. It was a stunning sight. "I'm glad you see it."

"Have you written your sister with your news?"

"And not tell you first? Are you mad?"

She scoffed. "Fine then. The matriarch is now aware. Go shout it from the church steeple if ya like."

"Fanny, to be sure. And Margaret's kin. That will do at present." He gave her the sweetest of kisses on her cheek. "I'll go see that your things are taken up."

"Sharpish, and make sure there's a supper tonight for us. I don't know how you've been living without Cook, but I'll not be sent to the forest to forage my meal like a traveling tinker."

"Yes, mother."

They parted company.


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

It came down to a picnic blanket and a shallow apple crate.

Margaret was quickly losing her mind. Her pregnancy was in its seventh month. And it seemed as though God wanted to test her ability to withstand every misery the condition might hold. The first few months had battered her with constant morning sickness. She would suddenly bolt from a room, racing to the privy before losing her breakfast. Food itself was a chore to push down, as even the mention of most meals made her queasy. John and Hannah would entreat her, asking her to think of her health and the child she was growing. She would force down toast most mornings, only to eject it an hour later. Hormones rode high in her blood. It felt as though they were changing its very direction. Afternoons filled her with a manic energy, throwing her into any chore with white-knuckled determination. Hannah, who had become a more gentle and considered figure, urged her to relax more. This advice only imbued Margaret with more urgency.

As her stomach grew and tightened, sleep eluded her. The evenings would come and suddenly she was exhausted, barely able to sit up at the dinner table as she pushed unappealing substances around her plate. John escorted her to her room, helped her dress for bed, massaged her aching legs and back while conversing in his rich, deep voice. He was entranced by her changing shape, insisting she was gorgeous. It was all very soothing. Or was until the last candle was blown out and her husband nestled her into his larger proportions, stroking her arms and braiding their legs together. Her warmth put him to sleep with no trouble. But their little one woke up in the silence and flapped like bird in a cage. The swooping and kicking and foreign weight pressing her organs kept her blinking and shifting in the dark for hours. She considered waking John, to ease her boredom, but never could. He also needed rest, and while she grew petulant at his peace, she knew she was being selfish. So she bore it with as much motherly grace as she could muster, and so too with the tiredness the next day.

But it also created another problem. One she simply could not make peace with.

Margaret's discomfort and tiredness meant that she and John had not embraced for weeks. She felt she was getting too big and awkward for their more enthusiastic sessions, and while he would have happily accommodated a gentler pace, she did not have the energy when the clock struck eight.

At first, it seemed a small sacrifice. They were both so much in love. Margaret was still knocked breathless every time John pulled her into his arms. The smell of him. The heat of him. The tall shelter he created around her. At first, she found solace in these smaller but still so very precious intimacies. Her condition also reigned him in as well. While he still wanted her every moment of the night and day, her suffering hurt him. Made him softer. Lowered his voice when he spoke to her.

Margaret saw all of these softenings in the people around her. In the night, she was glad of them. In the day, they jarred her nerves.

In the hard light of day, she paced the house like an animal. Winter had set Milton into an icy block. The fires blazed constantly to ward off the frozen air. Margaret's walks had been curtailed by iced-over streets and frigid temperatures. Her restlessness could find no exorcising that way.

Which left the house.

Its grand dimensions felt stifling. Margaret would walk the ground floor, then the second, then the ground again, all in the failed hope of shaking off this unnamed demon slithering inside her. Her clothing felt tight. Her skin itched. Her fingers fluttered. No book or letter writing could keep her eyes focused. Any polishing or cleaning she attempted was shooed away by Hannah or clucked at by the maids.

And John's absence from between her thighs stole what little concentration she had.

It was most unfair. She loved her husband. It was her natural right to join with him at night. This condition of hers was ruining their precious time in their bedroom, only to lift as he was eating his breakfast and walking out the door. She could not very well ask him to stay behind and service her like a doctor treating a medical emergency. And what would Hannah say at the sight of her daughter-in-law dragging her son back upstairs and slamming the door at seven o'clock in the morning?

She shook her head, angry.

She walked up to the large bay window in their bedroom. Cold light played across her lovely face and cream-coloured dress as she stared across the yard to John's office window. She could see nothing inside, merely the reflection of the grey clouds above, frost nibbling around the panes.

Was he thinking of her now? As she thought of him? Did he miss their lovemaking as much as she? Or had sweetness and caution for his firstborn beaten the urge from him? She made a sour face. She was tired of caution. Of solicitous inquiries of her health. Of knowing looks passed over her head when she was attacked by nausea. Even of Cook trying to make meals that would ease it.

Everyone was being so damned nice and it was infuriating.

Staring at John's office, Margaret decided to take him up on his constant offer to help in any way.

Downstairs, Jane jumped at the mistress's voice in the doorway.

"Jane. I'd like to take Mr. Thornton his lunch today. Can you prepare it please?"

She bobbed. "O' course, mistress. Would you like yours to take as well?"

The very thought made her gut rumble mutinously. She shook her head. "Just his. And a blanket for myself in case it's chilly inside." She spied an apple crate in the corner, half full of potatoes. The wooden box was about two feet across, five inches deep. She nodded towards it. "Please put them both in that. I'll carry it over."

Jane moved with a speed that pleased Margaret's demon.

She offered to carry it herself and spare Margaret the walk across the frozen cobblestones, but the mistress refused. Balancing the crate awkwardly over her belly, she made her way. Several of the dock workers stopped and offered to take it to the master. She declined, determined to complete this one simple task without assistance.

The roar and heat of the machines followed her across the main floor, up the stairs. When she toed the office door open, he looked up in surprise. As usual, his clothing was picked at, his coat off and his cravat askew. "Darling!" He moved fast, out of his chair and taking the crate from her two hands before she had even said hello.

"What are you doing carrying this blasted thing all the way over here? Where are Jane and Agnes?" He glowered at her as he set the crate on the corner of his desk. "I swear I'm going to strangle those geese if they made you walk—"

"I can walk perfectly fine, John. Jane offered. I refused. I'm growing a child, I haven't lost my limbs."

"In the freezing cold! You could have tripped! If you're injured at all over something as silly as bringing me lunch then I'll-"

"I didn't bring you lunch," she interrupted, putting her hands up. She didn't want his protectiveness right now, nor did she want an argument.

At that, he squinted at her. He gestured at the box.

She nodded, closing the door behind her. Like before, she locked it. "What I mean is, yes of course I've brought your lunch. I enjoy doing so very much. But it has given me a plausible reason to come and ask for your help."

His brow smoothed and he smiled. His ire melted away in an instant. "Of course. Anything. How can I be of service?"

Margaret reddened at his choice of words. "I need you, John."

"You have me. Whatever you need."

She swallowed. "Then please put the blanket out in front of the stove. And the crate upside-down on the floor by your desk."

He frowned.

She waited.

He turned on his heel and obeyed. Setting his plate aside, he unfurled the dark blue woollen blanket and laid it out before the warm stove. He picked up the crate, flipped it, and set it to one side on the floor. He turned to await further instruction.

Margaret gave him the prettiest, most insecure smile he'd ever seen her wear. "Tell me, my love," he asked.

"I need you."

"You've said."

"To make love to me. Now. For as long as you're able. As hard as you dare."

John pulled a shocked lungful of air.

"I know you don't want to!" she cried out. "I know this is hardly the place! I know you're worried about me and our child and everything that may go wrong, but I am tormented! I want you so much, but my body has turned against me, falling ill when you're home at night and screaming for you when you leave! I can't take it and I refuse to another day!" Tears threatened to fall. She willed them to stay. The result made her eyes look so liquid and endearing that it broke John's heart.

She jutted her chin in her signature stubbornness. "I'm afraid I must insist."

John couldn't help it. Despite his shock, he smiled at his glorious woman. "An office isn't suitable to make love to an expecting lady." He gestured to its abundance of hard, unforgiving surfaces.

She in turned pointed to the blanket and crate. "I've come prepared."

"I don't understand."

"I don't believe my current state will allow for our usual way. I'd like to try with you behind me. We've yet to do so, but my stomach won't be a hindrance if we—"

"Are you—?" John lowered his voice to a hiss, stepping into her space. "Are you suggesting I take you from behind? Like beasts in the field?"

Her eyes fluttered at his nearness. "Yes."

John saw her go limp in response to him. Saw her need in the upturned, submissive angle of her throat. Just as ever, she surprised him. He snorted in frustration, palming his neck and he looked up, praying for his slipping sanity. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Do you want me at all?"

"Every damned day and you know it."

"You don't think me fat?"

"I think you swollen with my babe and it's driving me wild."

"Then please? I'm going mad, John. This ache is killing me. My blood is on fire. I adore your kind heart, but right now, I need something else."

"My cock. For as long and hard as I'm able." He was being coarse. He wanted to be. Part of him liked pushing at his proper gentleman's daughter. Her request was vulgar. So too should its language be.

She smiled softly. "Your desire would also be most welcome."

He broke at that. "What on earth is the crate for?"

"For me." She drew a line from her forehead level to the centre of his chest.

He snorted again. "The lady must pick then. Where are my services required first?"

She kissed his hand with a gratitude that baffled him, then walked to the crate, where she stepped onto it, facing the desk. "I'm curious to feel you this way first." She bent forward slightly, bracing her hands on the corners.

He moved behind her, noting with irritation that his very clever wife was now equal to him in height at their hips. "Are you quite sure about this, Margaret?"

His voice had an edge to it. His Northern burr bit into the words more than usual, which happened when he got emotional. Namely, aggressive.

Its effect was immediate. Margaret's hips rose up. She bit her lips. She squeaked, then nodded. "Just once. Please."

She gasped as she felt her dress ride up in big handfuls, up and up until he clutched it at her waist. She unlaced her white drawers and shoved them down, happy when they fell away from the press of her stomach. It was all she removed, there was no need for more.

John was equal parts furious and delighted. As Margaret stood facing away, he admired her slim back and the way her stomach rounded like the hunter's moon, peeking at the sides. He swelled with pride knowing he had proved virile with her. Many couples stayed childless, for whatever reasons God had. But Margaret was a natural-born mother, and while John wasn't sure if children would love him the way they would no doubt love her, he certainly enjoyed making them. This would simply be their first.

He unbuttoned himself, letting his straining length loose as he gently reached between her legs. He groaned at what greeted him. Her flesh was hot—much hotter than it ought to be after walking in the freezing outdoors. And her lips were swollen—usually they'd need to make love for hours before she felt this tender. Slickness coated his fingers instantly. He grimaced, his poor wife had worked herself into quite a state.

"I'll only do this if you tell me when to stop," he said.

"Just as long as you—"

"_Tell me_ when to stop," he repeated.

She nodded.

Clasping her hips, John stared at the frosted window as he slid into a hot, thrilling paradise.

Margaret made a whimpering, grateful noise in her throat, pitching her hips back and taking all of him quickly. The seething, hungry clench of her body was stretched out. Her demon sighed. "Oh,God," she choked out. "This, exactly this."

John nodded, tightening his grip, and started to thrust. Slowly at first, testing this new position and still unsure if his overeager wife felt comfortable. She widened her stance on the crate, arching her back, reacting like he was massaging an ache she couldn't possibly satisfy alone.

This was clearly what she needed.

John grit his teeth, closed his eyes against the devastating sight of her splayed out before him, and increased his pace. From this angle, sliding deep was easy, _too_ easy. His hips collided with her soft flesh too readily. His testicles slapped against the wet heat of her lips, making them tighten against the added stimulation.

They hadn't been together for awhile, his stamina was not what it was when they joined several times a day.

It was a special sort of Hell that he hadn't considered before. As he forced himself into a hard rhythm, Margaret couldn't get enough. She begged him not to stop, spread wide and trembling for him, letting him fill her up. He knew she needed relief, and since this was about her, he tried to remove himself as much as he could, ignoring the wildfire burning him, ignoring the need to take his own sore release. He tried not to speak. To offer his love and articulate how provocative and exciting he found her, it would finish him for sure.

His bit his cheek. He sped up.

Margaret cried out. She tensed. She screamed. Her tight channel clamped and fluttered around him as he pushed her over the edge. She slumped forward, her forehead touching his scattered papers, as ecstasy charged through her.

John did not slow.

As he felt the last few flutters around his savagely hard cock, he dared speak. "Do you want more?"

She moaned something unintelligible.

Sweating, smiling tightly, he said, "Beg pardon?"

"Don't you want yours?" she repeated, turning to look over her shoulder.

"Not unless you're telling me to stop."

He looked into her eyes as he continued to move. Her pupils were blown wide. Her cheeks the most beautiful pink. Her lips slightly opened and he wished the position allowed him to kiss their plump tease.

"I…I love how you feel, but…"

He withdrew. His body screamed at the abandonment. Taking her hand, he led her to the blanket by the stove. "I've worked you hard. Kneel. It'll ease your weight."

She obeyed, grateful to redistribute on her hands and knees. John resumed his position behind her, pulled her skirts up once again and reentered her hot depths.

Over her happy coos, he clenched his eyes and teeth and continued to plow against her in hard bucks. Her head tipped back, bone-deep satisfaction pounding through her as her husband denied himself.

After ten minutes, she fell again. Blindness struck her as pleasure washed into every vein.

She trembled, ready to melt into the floor. "Please," she whispered. "Join me."

Two rough hands gripped her hips like a vice. He pumped once. Twice. John roared at her back as he shoved deep and gave her everything he had. She laughed a small laugh that he had been so very close the whole time.

John grunted, twitching and driving against her as his release eased its grip on him. He grabbed her waist, laying them both to one side, their bodies spooned and still joined, for he did not want to leave paradise just yet.

He held her as they caught their breath. His hands spanned over her belly. He growled, happy and protective.

Margaret smiled, turning her face to nuzzle his. "I needed that more than anything. Thank you, husband."

"I've missed you as well. I miss your skin. I miss falling asleep after hours of touching you."

"A few more months, that is all. I'll have my beautiful dark-haired baby and we can resume our…" she trailed off, blushing.

"Rutting."

"John!"

"Beasts in a field, darling. You specifically requested."

"Honestly." She turned away, smiling.

He put his fingers under her chin and pulled her back. When she looked at him, he raised one brow. "Let us talk of now, then. You said just this once."

"Yes. Exactly."

"This little escapade has satisfied you then?"

"Completely."

"I won't be seeing you this time tomorrow?"

"Not at all. I'm quite in control of myself now. I hope I haven't taken too much of your time."

John grinned.

When she left, the blanket and crate were left behind.

She returned the next day with a lunch plate.

She did the same the day after that.

And the day after that.


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

Margaret went into labour two days after their first anniversary.

Sweat drenched her face. Her hair matted against the guest bedroom's pillows. Her wrinkled, damp shift rode up her legs as she tossed on the bed, moaning.

It had been hours since the first real contractions had begun. The women of the house had flown into organised chaos. Jane ran for the doctor. Hannah ordered John from the house and Margaret into the spare bed. John's voice rose more than once as he argued his right to stay. It was only when Hannah said that he was causing Margaret added distress that he drew himself up, cursing, and rammed through the front door, stalking away. Agnes was busy fetching water and Hannah's sewing kit, just in case drastic action was needed. By the time the doctor arrived two hours later, Margaret glared through heavily-lidded eyes at the lot of them chittering around her.

"Get John," she hissed low.

Hannah jutted her chin. "This is no place for a husband. He'll only be in the way. Dr. Donaldson, Jane and I will help you through—"

"Get. John."

"No, girl."

"Hannah." Margaret struggled to sit up. The doctor attempted to ease her back. She slapped at his hands. "The doctor may stay because I need him. Jane," she turned her hard gaze to the poor maid. "Go to the office and get John. He's afraid. I'm afraid. We will _not _do this apart. Go now."

Jane shifted her eyes from Margaret to Hannah. She bobbed and hurried to the door. "Yes, mistress." She would not disobey the terrifying glint in the young woman's face.

Dr. Donaldson cleared his throat. "Mrs. Thornton, it's not usual or proper for a husband to be present during this delicate procedure."

Margaret spat a strange laugh. "There is nothing delicate about this, doctor."

"Be that as it may."

"The only person in this room in an awkward position is me. I take responsibility for letting a man into this room. He may leave if he wants, but no one will order him out of his house or away from his wife again."

A wave a pain bit into her belly. She gasped and wailed as it radiated all the way to the crown of her head. Hannah clasped her hand. "Yell all you like, child," she encouraged softly.

She dabbed the young woman's pale, beaded forehead with a cool cloth. The strength in Margaret's grip surprised her. She watched as the slender but defined muscles in her exposed arms and legs flexed under the pain. Hannah huffed, holding tight. Maybe, one day soon, she would admit out loud that she liked this Hale girl. That her stubbornness and indifference to people's opinion of her was truly a Thornton trait. Hannah may have despised that John had pined for her for so long unrequited, but now, looking at this hellion battle with her body and a room full of people, it was clear. John had fallen in love with his equal. He and Margaret were fated. In love, for sure, but also fellow combatants. John was a fighter. Margaret no less so. Hannah briefly imagined if she were holding Ann Latimer's hand right now. Would John be pacing his office in agony if that woman were here in Margaret's stead? Would Ann have demanded his presence against all advice? Would she have spit and hissed until they were too frightened to ignore her wishes?

Would Ann, or any woman, fight for John the way Margaret did?

Would any of them fight _with_ him? Defy him? Insist that she's right?

The backs of Hannah's fingers strayed across her clammy cheek. It startled Margaret. She looked at Hannah and found a look in the older woman as she gritted through the ebbing pain. "I'm proud of you, Miss Hale," she murmured to her. "May your child be half as strong as you."

Margaret stuttered, clenching her teeth, and nodded. "It's yours. And John's. It'll be strong as an ox."

They stared with an odd respect for each other when John burst into the room. His eyes clapped onto his wife and saw no one else. "Margaret."

She smiled and laughed unsteadily. "I'm fine. I promise." She put her hand out. "Please stay with me."

Hannah moved from her side as John filled it instantly. He took her hand and crushed it to his lips. The coolness of his fingers and the scruff of his face calmed her. She took a deep breath, then braced again as more pain stabbed her.

John looked at Dr. Donaldson. "What is happening?"

Hannah took the opportunity to herd the maids and herself from the room as the doctor explained that it was time for Margaret to push. John did not see them leave. He felt an acidic panic in his chest as his wife yanked his hand to her breast and screamed, her bright teeth flashing.

He moved without thinking.

He ripped away the pillows propped behind her back. Not even bothering to remove his shoes, he slid into the empty space, one leg on either side of her, and leaned her back into his chest. He held her hands in each of his.

He murmured, asking her to put her head on his shoulder. When she let her weight fall back into him, he whispered in encouragement. "My goddess," he pressed against her temple. "It's time."

She moaned. From the moment she'd seen him, half of her fear disappeared. The slick, spineless pillows were gone and his firm, cool length replaced them. Smokey sugar filled her nose. She turned her head into him, trying to hide from being ripped apart.

"It hurts," she whimpered.

"I know. I would take it from you if I could. But right now, I need you to push. Crush my hands if you must, but do as the doctor says." He buried his lips to her ear and hissed. "And live. Damn you, woman. Live through this or I will tear Heaven apart to find you again."

She smiled tightly. She gripped his hands and pushed.

A minute passed. Perhaps an hour. Margaret couldn't tell. Far away, she heard the doctor's authoritative voice telling her to push again. She heard John more clearly, whispering in her ear how well she was doing. She kept willing her body to tear itself in half, or so it seemed. With a final blinding bolt of pain, the grip between her thighs eased.

"The head is passed," the doctor said. "Well done, Mrs. Thornton."

A strange slipping sensation followed. And suddenly, it all faded away. The doctor was calling for someone. The door opened and an animated back and forth ensued.

Margaret didn't quite hear. John was solid against her back, his chest expanding, almost rocking her to sleep.

"…boy…healthy… a grandmother, Mrs. Thornton…congratulations…"

Sugar kissed her forehead. "Well done, my darling."

She murmured something, she wasn't even sure what she was trying to say.

Blackness chased her as the noise around her increased. Suddenly, another pang hit her and she bowed back again. "Aaaaaaaauuuuuhhhhh!"

The noise changed direction, swirling around her. She felt the doctor resume his place between her legs. She heard John growling something at the man. He was rigid behind her. She wanted to calm him down, but couldn't even open her eyes.

"…no blood loss…she's crowning again…water…Mrs. Thornton, I need you to push again."

Margaret didn't understand. Hadn't she done so? Hadn't they said something about a boy?

I didn't matter. She gave a small push to appease him. John had asked her to obey, and so she would. She pushed a little harder. It hurt, though not as badly as before.

She kept at it until the intensity eased for a second time and the tone of the voices around her seemed happier.

She was glad. Everyone's fear gave off an unpleasant smell in the small room. Their relief made it dissipate.

"…can't believe it…"

"…another…Fanny will faint at the…"

"…you're sure she's….nothing wrong…will recover…"

"…well done, Margaret…"

"…ridiculous…blonde…of all the unlikely things…"

Margaret finally let the blackness take her.

M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J~M~J

When she woke, the sunlight had dimmed and the room was cast in shadows. All was quiet, the swarm of human activity was gone.

She was covered in blankets. She felt dry and warm. She arched her back, willing the ache from her spent muscles.

Her pillow rippled in response. She squeaked as two long arms snaked around her, a deep voice murmuring in her ear. "Welcome back, my love."

"John." She reached back, tentatively hooking onto his neck. He was there. Warm and solid. "What happened? Where is the doctor?"

"Left about an hour ago." His burr was especially strong. "You did so well. I can't believe it."

She peeked around the room. "Where is he? I don't see his cradle. Is he with Hannah?"

A deep, happy rumble. "He. And she. Mother has them both."

"Both?"

"Our daughter and our son. Two babes, perfect as their mother." He paused, snorting. "And as blonde as their aunt."

"Twins? I…" she twisted as much as she could to look him square in the face. "Two children? You're certain?"

At that, he laughed loudly. "Very." He curved in, holding her tighter. He kissed her cheek hard. "Beautiful, stunning woman of mine. You've given me two of God's most cherished angels. I'm so proud of you."

Margaret took his kiss gratefully, too amazed to reply.

His lips were in no hurry to leave her. He muttered something.

"Hmmm?" she asked.

"Names," he butted his face into her wild hair. "What shall we name them?"

They had spoken of names for many months. It was almost a game now. One person making a suggestion that the other person either disliked, knew too many of, had known a bratty version as a child, and so on. At some point they'd agreed to wait until the birth before entering any serious negotiations.

"Oh," she said. "Goodness. It seems a different task now."

"Indeed. One of each. Are you sure I can't yet tempt you with Maude?" he teased.

She winced. Laughter, even a soft chuckle, hurt. He took pity and rubbed her still-swollen belly. Both noted how deflated she seemed now. The doctor and Mrs. Thornton assured them that her body would shrink in the coming weeks.

"What of Richard? And Maria?" Her parents' names in his soft question were a kind consideration. But wrong, somehow.

Margaret arched again. She wanted to stand, but couldn't quite manage to find the will. Not when John felt so good wrapped around her, teasing and sweet as he ever was.

"May I see them? I should meet my children before I agree to anything."

John reached over and pulled the servant's cord by the bedside. Jane appeared after a minute and ran to fetch his mother and his firstborns. The matriarch entered with a bundle in each arm. Margaret had never seen her so motherly in expression. Not even for John, whom she loved more than the world.

"You're awake," she noted softly. "Good. They'll need feeding soon. Honestly, they're the best babes I've ever seen. Nary a cry yet, just happy to look at the world. True Thorntons for sure, no whinging."

"Mother, they'll cry plenty in the coming years. Do not insist they are as steely as all that," John admonished with a smile.

"Nonsense. They'll stay the most agreeable creatures alive, mark my words."

She handed them down one at a time, their daughter to John, their son to Margaret.

Upon seeing their tiny faces peeking out from the blankets Hannah had embroidered for only one, Margaret broke out into tears. They slipped down her cheeks quietly. Hannah was right. They were perfectly perfect.

As she gazed at her boy, their names rose from the deep sea of her mind, as certain and clear as if someone had whispered them.

She touched his downy blonde head. "Jonathan."

Because he was John's. Whenever someone called to this child, John would claim a small piece of his namesake.

She looked over at her stunning, golden daughter. "Rose."

A yellow rose. Plucked from John's pocket and gifted to her all over again. Rose was just as unexpected, as precious, as sitting on a train platform, a single flower crushed between their hands as their lips touched, caution thrown to the wind. She had kissed John sixteen times that day. She had counted. The flower had wilted in the sweaty excitement of her palm.

Hannah and John looked at each other.

Margaret didn't see. Her eyes were only for her children. Her heart felt too big for her chest. She tried to breathe around it. It hurt in a wonderful way.

She tore her eyes away and looked at her husband. "What do you think?"

"Jonathan. Rose." He repeated them slowly.

"Yes."

"Who were they?" Surely family relations, his logic tempered. His heart whispered another, more thrilling possibility.

Margaret blinked. "Jonathan is you. Rose was the first gift you gave to me. Do you not like them? I'm sorry, they seemed so appr—"

"You would name them after me. And after a flower I gave you."

She cocked her head. "Of course."

John was silent.

Hannah, understanding the moment was not for her, excused herself. "I'll be back with some supper for you in an hour. Ring the bell if you need me." She stepped from the room.

John settled back. His legs had gone numb hours before. His back was a collection of complaints against the ornate headboard. His arms ached from holding Margaret as tightly as he made them.

Margaret felt herself getting emotional again. John didn't approve. He was looking for a way to say so without hurting her feelings. She sniffed, adjusting the bundle in her arms. "It's all right, John. I understand. We needn't rush, we can put together a list of more suitable—"

"You want to name our son for me," he repeated. "And our daughter for your yellow rose."

"You sound astonished. Please tell me what you'd prefer."

He shook his head. "I'd shock you."

"Please just say."

"I'd prefer to set these angels aside, kiss you madly and start making our next pair."

"John!"

"You asked."

"Honestly!" she giggled, wincing again. "So you _do _approve."

"I'm humbled. And delighted. Jonathan Thornton. Rose Thornton. How beautiful they both sound. And Rose will be certainly be your daughter, soft petals and a hidden sharpness, a true rose and thorn."

"I hadn't even considered, but yes, that does seem appropriate for any granddaughter of Hannah."

"Do not excuse your own blood in this girl. I have another goddess in my arms. She will lay men to waste just like her mother, starting with me," John teased.

Margaret smiled and looked at Jonathan. "As will he. My baby boy. You'll be as tall and beautiful as your father, I know it. You'll break my heart every day."

_Fathers and daughters, mothers and sons_. Bessy had been right all along.

They were quiet then, staring into the endless possibilities of their twins' sleeping faces.

John finally spoke low. "Are you quite all right? Can I get you something?"

"I'm tired. And sore. But I'm well, I promise. I just need a glass of water and my hairbrush. That will put almost all things right again."

He rang the bell and instructed Jane when she appeared. When the items were fetched, Margaret drained the glass in three swallows. John carefully set Rose in the crook of her other elbow and plucked up her brush. He resettled them all, allowing her chestnut waterfall to spill before him. Starting at the ends, he patiently worked through each curl. Margaret closed her eyes at each soothing pull. She wondered if she would ever reconcile this gentle soul with the violent juggernaut she'd first witnessed, his bloody fists transformed to a softness that wouldn't allow a single hair broken.

_I was angry, I have a temper_. That had been his defence when they met formally.

Many months ago she's overheard two of the women spinners in the yard, giggling as she left the office after one of her and John's lunch dates.

"Thank God for Miss Margaret," one of them had sighed. "Made that man far more agreeable."

"Me ma told me it's 'cause cross men who're sexed good and proper are far easier to live with," the second said.

"Aye. Gives their fire a better fuel to burn. She's a brave soul, takin' the risk tha he might stay cross. Angry men…" she shook her head knowingly. "…they make for terrible husbands."

Margaret had walked on, fascinated.

Now, John kept pausing in his ministrations to touch one of the three of them. Jonathan's cheek. Rose's hair. Margaret's lips. The spinners were right. Love, not anger, lit John's fire now, hot and bright. She kissed the fingertips tracing her mouth. "I love you, John."

She heard him gasp softly behind her.

"I love you, goddess mine."

"You've given me beautiful children. Thank you."

"The doctor says you need time to heal. A month, approximately."

She smiled. "Yes?"

The brushing resumed behind her. She hummed.

"Yes. And while I'll spend this month making sure my goddess and my angels have everything they need, when it's over I'm going to spend days inside of you."

The promise was delivered in such a serious baritone that she meant to laugh, but only shivered. "I believe you."

Rose stirred against her. Margaret's breasts tightened in response. "I must feed them," she said.

John stiffly pulled his legs around her and stood by the bed, grunting as blood began to circulate again. "I'll get mother to help you. I'm sure she remembers." He turned and looked down at his family. Smiling, he wagged his fingers at his gurgling babes. "One month, little ones. You may borrow her. But after that, I plan to fight for my place in her arms."


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER TEN**

The following month found John in a continual daze. His grand house, in all of its former solemnity, was now little more than a giant nursery. Visitors knocked constantly as news of the twins spread in the masters' circle. Thornton's beautiful wife had produced two beautiful babes. Was anyone really surprised?

John certainly was not. Two perfect heirs seemed a natural thing to him. Since Margaret was their author, he did not believe any other outcome was possible.

Though most people offered their well wishes with a fair amount of sincerity, one person in particular tasted bitterness.

Fanny bit her tongue and offered congratulations with the rest of them. She was also expecting, though it was only her fifth month and she knew that neither her mother nor Milton society would astound at her pregnancy the way they had for John's. He was the firstborn Thornton, the head of the family and the most unlikely to be captured by domesticity, so her niece and nephew drew more attention than her children ever would. It was most unfair. She had worked ceaselessly to get a husband. She'd learned every coquettish lure: fluttering her lashes, playing the piano, dancing the latest reels, and following her magazine's instructions to the letter. They had finally paid dividends and a wealthy man had taken notice. Watson may not have been handsome nor clever, but he understood money. Money, to Fanny's mind, was the only reason a woman should be induced into matrimony. It helped that Watson was not a cruel man, certainly. But his wealth was the ultimate prize. She had delighted in her game well played.

But John?

How ridiculous that he'd had to play no game at all. Or at least no game as complicated as the chess that is a woman enticing a man. No, John had merely had to roll a single die. No art and no strategy needed, merely a one in six chance. And he'd succeeded. Just when his luck had all but run out and the Thornton family faced ruin, he'd rolled a six. Margaret had seemingly flown down from the skies, gracing him with a fortune and a devotion that made no sense to anyone who'd ever seen them together on previous occasions. Fanny pulled a face. Margaret and John. Two admittedly handsome people, so alike in their stubborn severity, seemed to take pleasure in declaring war on the other. Fanny had never heard a single sentence pass between them that wasn't followed with a barb. Both had glared daggers at each other, never minding the company around them. At the time, Fanny had found it most amusing, this melodrama these two seemed so happy to provide. It gave her friends something to dissect at their next tea.

But now?

She gazed down at their tow-headed children, swaddled and sleeping little lambs. She let her eyes wander to their parents. Margaret sat across the room from the bassinets, allowing guests to inspect them without her hovering. John was knelt beside her, tucked into the bell of her dress, far too close for company's sake. Their heads were bent together, whispering. John was riveted, a tiny smile pulled his lips.

They were no longer severe. No anger sparked as they ignored the world around them. John leaned in and kissed her cheek. He lingered. He nuzzled the bridge of his nose along her jaw. Margaret closed her eyes. She reached for his hand, weaving her fingers between his. They did not kiss. When their foreheads touched, their hair caught the light and refracted, jet and sable. Margaret murmured something. John grinned, and Fanny could not remember the last time she saw his teeth flash so brightly.

Fanny closed her own eyes and breathed deeply. She swallowed her jealousy as gracefully as she could.

She was far younger, prettier, and more deserving than either of them. How galling it was to know that she would never be young _and_ in love.

Watson was twenty years her senior. When he embraced her, the paunch of his stomach met her first. The flab on his chest and in the underside of his arms closed in. He kissed her like a man certain in his rights to do so. For this past year, Fanny had congratulated herself on withstanding his advances with a strained smile and the passivity required of a woman when a man climbed on top of her. She bore up under his mass with dignity. She accepted his entry without verbal complaint. When he finished, he had the decency to leave her bed and take his sleep in his own room.

Fanny's maid gossiped with Agnes. Fanny knew Margaret and her brother shared the same bed every night, their linens stained and their bedclothes unused and folded neatly in their drawers. A tangle of bare limbs peeked from the blanket each morning when the girl lit the fires. Even late into her pregnancy, they could not be parted by custom or shame. Agnes had whispered more than just their arrangements, and Fanny's girl had gasped at her graphic descriptions. Apparently every room of the house had been christened with their coupling, or suspected to have been.

Fanny watched as Margaret raised their interlocked hands. John's fingers were raised between hers like a starfish. Fanny watched as she slowly kissed his fingertips…each…and every….one.

The look of lust on her brother's face made her blush and close her eyes against their intimacy.

_Where is mine?_

The question made her inhale sharply.

_Where?_ her mind asked angrily. _Where is my young lover? Where is the man who's beauty and attentions make me forget we aren't alone in a room? Why have my arts merely caught an ageing popinjay? In what bed lay my sweetheart, waiting for me, wanting to teach me what John and Margaret have learned? Does he know I'm never coming? Will he simply pick a different pretty girl to lavish his devotion on? _

Of course he would.

Fanny was Mrs. Watson. For the rest of her life. Or twenty years at least, if Watson met an old age. Fanny would be forty-two by then. Old. Her own children would be sitting with _their _sweethearts, whispering in a crowded room, holding hands and giggling. She would spend her life alone, and the young men of the world would fall in love with young, unattached ladies as they always had. She had missed her chance.

"Blonde!" she chirped loudly. Her intended targets pulled away from each other to look at her. "You must be so pleased by their fairness. Mother often said that John was born dark as a kettle. At least he managed to keep it to himself."

John's smile disappeared. He tensed and went to stand, visibly angry at her jibe. Margaret put a hand on his knee, keeping him down by her side. She smiled that smile, the one all of Milton understood to be Margaret humouring a fool.

"You're perfectly right, Fanny. We are so very pleased at how well they look. And so unusual to be blonde!" She gave John a sweet grin. "Their brothers and sisters will no doubt be darker."

And just like that, John relaxed. His grin matched hers and Fanny felt herself forgotten. "Most certainly," he muttered, catching a curl at the nape of her neck. "Chestnut, God willing."

Margaret giggled, flicking a strand from his forehead. "No. Black."

"You'd have a kettle then?"

She laughed harder. "I believe you promised me _a dozen _in total. Ten kettles, please."

John barely raised her hand from atop her dress as he kissed it, his dark head nearly in her lap as he paid his thanks. Margaret's smile turned to one of indulgence as she looked down on him, her other hand leaving his knee to pet the black in question.

It was already happening. Fanny was becoming invisible. Love could not see her, would barely acknowledge her presence.

Watson cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Congratulations again, Thornton. A very fine brood, I must say. I look forward to the day when yours and mine play as dear cousins in the mill yards."

The Thorntons turned their genuine smiles to the older man. "As do I," John replied. "I expect they'll get along splendidly. So close in age as well."

Between the three, they managed to continue a polite conversation before the Watsons were due to leave.

As Fanny put on her bonnet, she startled when Margaret embraced her. She stood stiffly as the young mother held her in knowing arms.

"I always wanted a sister," Margaret spoke against her cheek. "I know we cannot choose our siblings, nor our in-laws, but I would very much like if we could learn to love each other as both."

Fanny didn't answer.

Margaret pulled away, smiling more kindly to her than before. "We'll see you next week for dinner."

"Yes," Fanny managed. "Until then."

The front door closed behind them. Agnes and Jane appeared from the corners. Agnes cleared the tea while Jane took the children to be bundled up for their daily walk with the young maid and their grandmother.

John and Margaret were left alone.

Gravity pulled them into their usual hold. "I'm sorry about Fanny," he rumbled into her hair. "She was out of line."

Margaret shook her head against his shirt. "She's sad, that is all."

"Sad? She's wealthy and expecting. Everything she's ever wanted."

Margaret looked up at her logical darling, smiling at his brotherly confusion. "Watson is a rich man, to be sure."

"But you deem Fanny sad?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Watson answers her worldly requirements, but none of her soul's. Watson…" she traced the line of his collar along his vulnerable throat. "Watson is not her John."

"Believe me, goddess. Fanny does _not _want a man like me."

"All women do, in some form. Not _my_ John, but _her _John. A man she prefers above all others. A man who loves her, respects her, desires her completely. A man she feels the same for in every way." Margaret blushed, keeping her eyes on her finger as she pressed under his chin. "I've never seen a marriage like ours. One so…symmetrical."

His hands closed around her waist. His fingers nearly touched around its petite circle. He didn't understand how in just five weeks after giving birth she looked exactly as she did the day he met her. Save for her breasts, which swelled with milk and filled his head with guilty impulses.

"I would argue that. I love you more than you could possibly love me."

She pinched his chin between thumb and forefinger. "Liar, sir!"

"I have one refusal in my arsenal. How many have you, madam?"

"I have one perfect recollection of my husband informing me that any foolish passion he felt for me was over, and intimated he was shopping for a new attachment."

She smiled, triumphant.

John coloured in shame.

It was true. He had volleyed that hateful vitriol at her downturned head when he'd accused her of a late night tryst with another man. Jealousy had turned him ugly. The sight of her holding someone, kissing his cheek, clearly loving him, had broken something inside John he'd yet to give name to. This mystery lover had driven him mad for months. _Who was he? Why had he left? How could he abandon this goddess and leave her to suffer a damaged reputation? What cruel promises had he poisoned her with? How could she love such a bastard, but see a tradesman like John as offensive? How much of herself had she given him? Where else had she pressed those sweet lips, other than his cheek? _

Ann Latimer had not interested him in the least. She was a woman only in an academic sense. She did not ignite his intellect nor his lust. She smiled at him in the way they all smiled at him. Her uninvited fingers creeping into the crook of his elbow was forward, but not overly so. He recognised these symptoms as a woman interested and letting him know as meekly as Swiss society had no doubt coached her for catching a husband. If anything, it all bored him. But she was convenient and logical and he'd hoped those ingredients would magic themselves into love, given that Margaret belonged to someone equally unworthy. They did not.

He should have known. He should have _known_. Margaret was kind and true and had martyred her character to save Fred. She had never deserved John's venom, while he had absolutely deserved her refusal the day he marched into her house and blathered on about his feelings while giving no credence to hers. To expect her to love him, when he'd succeeded so well at hiding his attraction, when he'd belittled her opinions and publicly set her down on more than one occasion about the hard truths of business. When even in private, he'd scrubbed his hands where she had touched him, impatient to rid himself of the erotic tingle she unwittingly injected under his skin. Had he honestly expected her to swoon at his offer?

John gathered her in his arms and lifted her up. He buried his face in the crook of her neck. "Forgive me," he said. "I hate the man I was that day."

Margaret felt the temperature drop. The warmth left him. He was cold with self-recrimination. She locked her arms around his neck, pressing her face in his lapel. "Don't," she shushed. "Please don't think of it." This was meant to be a game. Why did she have such a gift of hurting him?

"It _was_ a lie. You must know this. I was so angry, but I was terrified that you would see how much I still loved you. Even if you loved someone else, I was dangerously close to begging."

"You had every right, John. That night with Fred looked wicked. And you already thought me a heartbreaker when I refused you. I could not correct you. I'm amazed you still cared for me, given how callous I must have appeared."

"But you're _not_!" Her husband squeezed in frustration, shaking her gently. "How could you have fallen in love with me when I spurned you so cruelly?"

She sighed, surrounded by anger, adoring its source. "Because you didn't know. I couldn't tell you. To keep our secret forfeited your love and your good opinion of me. To tell you would have tested your loyalty as a magistrate. I could not risk Fred, I would have destroyed my family and myself if he hanged, so I let you despise me. You did _not_ know."

"It wasn't my place to know. I was hateful. Jealous. You should have married Lennox and not rewarded my spite."

"I was deceitful. You should have married Ann and saved the Thornton name from Hale disrepute. You see? Symmetry."

He barked a rough, annoyed laugh against her throat. "You're right. I've never seen a love like ours before. I did not know it possible."

"Precisely."

He splayed his hands across her back, caressing. Sliding into her upswept hair. "Ten more."

"Yes, please."

"Black as kettles."

"Yes, please."

"Mother has taken the angels for a walk."

Margaret pulled back to look at him, mischief glinting. "We have one hour."


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

Margaret moaned before John silenced her with his own lips.

They might have one hour, but that did not mean the servants on the floor below were deaf.

He sat naked on the plush loveseat in their bedroom. An equally naked Margaret straddled him. Their clothes littered the floor. Thank goodness Margaret could still claim postnatal discomfort and retire into her bedclothes whenever she wanted and take rest. It made their lovemaking easier to conceal.

Their current position had started out as a practical alternative to the bed. As John had predicted, Margaret was a tigress of a mother in all ways. Not only did she dote on his children with a dauntless affection, but she accommodated them in every womanly way, including creating an abundance of milk. Her breasts were often tight and brimming for his twins, who ate with relish from this endless source. As a result, when John touched her, she poured forth.

Margaret had turned beet red the first time, surely ready to die of embarrassment at her lack of control over her body. John, however, had found it erotic in a way he could not articulate. Far from finding it off-putting, he had been fascinated, licking a single drop from his finger before asking with wide, serious eyes if he could drink from the source.

It had been a shocking request.

But she'd been helpless to refuse. At his first deep pull, she'd anchored her hands in his hair and keened. The taste of her had changed. When he sucked, even as gently as possible, sugar water filled his mouth. Margaret sighed in relief as his small portion eased the pressure in their busty weight.

He had to be careful. Drinking from her was addictive. He mustn't get drunk on her and steal from his babes' mouthes. It took discipline. Here was just another drug her body plied him with. It scrambled his judgement, dimmed his eyesight, and slipped another knife under the armour he'd built since childhood. He didn't understand how a loving wife who offered him so much was also a temptation that shook his very soul. She was not sinful. Their sex was not sin. Why did it feel so forbidden?

Her milk thrilled him like every apple in Eden.

But, it wet the linens. Whether he sipped or simply pressed against her, her breasts sprang in generous streams.

So, he'd dragged her to the loveseat, saddled himself with her kneeling form, and sank her down.

Five weeks without this had been torture. Only in the last three days had they resumed their carnal activities, though at a ginger pace. John had been cautious. Margaret simply impatient. Her body had healed, and nothing had dampened the young, passionate woman she was. She knew now that she was a sexual being. John's caution was lovely. But unnecessary. She planned to show him so.

Margaret sank her nails into his shoulders as he filled her up, little half-moons reddening under their bite. She threw her head back. She moaned louder and John could not help but join her.

"Stunning," he hissed at her arched form. Her breasts were at his eye level. Their lush, tight perfection filled his view. As the last inch of him disappeared inside her, her nipples beaded with milk. John watched in awe as it glided down her juicy curves and fell in droplets on his abdomen.

He yanked her grip from his shoulders and pushed them behind his head so she held the sofa back. She fell within striking distance. His hands coasted down her sides, over her hips, and clasped her supple backside. He pulled her closer, wider, harder onto himself. His sweetheart gasped his name as more milk pattered his chest.

"My tigress," he praised. "What an extraordinary creature you are."

Margaret yanked her chin down and shook her head to clear her eyes of lust. She whimpered, lifting up and sliding down him gently. She watched him stare at the spring of milk dripping steadily, slipping into the contours of his muscled torso. Her breasts were funny things these days. They ached at the sight of her children. They wept at the touch of her husband.

Now, she gave him her most irresistible pout. "They ache." She arched in his grasp, bringing them closer to his lips.

"Poor baby," he taunted, his hips meeting hers.

"You can make them feel better."

"By stealing from my angels?" He clicked his tongue at her.

"I make too much as it is. Please," she begged prettily, daring to move faster. "Otherwise I'll make a mess."

"I _do_ love all of the candy you make," he conceded, smiling.

"Well then?"

"Perhaps an exchange." He cupped her nape and pulled her ear to his lips. "Ride me dry," he whispered. "And I'll drink you dry."

She reared back, gently slapping his cheek, gasping in shock. His pretty, grinning face doused her outrage in a blink. Instead, she surged forward, replacing her hands on the wooden rail of the sofa, shoved her chest into his face and rode him at a hard, punishing gallop.

"Fine. Drink."

John barked profanity into her cleavage before he selected one ripe nipple and latched on. Margaret sobbed as violent relief filled her. She arched harder into his mouth, working him at a furious pace that she knew he could not sustain for long, but couldn't stop as the throbbing pressure in two places made her wild.

Sweet liquid filled John's mouth and his amusement was replaced by lust. His fingers dug into her flesh. She tasted heavenly and she fucked like a siren and it threatened to turn him inside-out. "Yes," he groaned into her skin. "Tear me to pieces, lover."

He pulled three mouthfuls before switching to the other bursting tap. More grateful moans met his suction. He clapped a hand over her mouth, since he could not kiss her quiet again. He gasped when she opened her mouth and sucked his ring finger out of the stack. She tongued his wedding band and he hissed as heat and wetness battered him on three fronts.

After four heavy pulls at the second breast, Margaret pulled John by the hair to angle his mouth to hers. "That's better," she whispered against his lips. "Thank you."

"You taste better than brandy," he said, kissing down her throat. "I could drink you for hours."

"Your angels would not approve."

John's smile was brilliant when he leaned back, his hands gripping her, silently asking her to slow down. "I want more, goddess."

She giggled, snuggling down into him, matching his slower speed. "I can only make so much."

"No. More children. Rose and Jonathan are my pride and joy." He wrapped his arms around her back. "I don't know what you've done to me, but all I want is to live in this room, spend my life making love to you, and make as many children as you can bear."

She hummed at the thought. "Is twelve not enough?"

"Can you promise me ten sets? Two each time?"

"Twenty-two!"

"Please?"

Margaret sat up, scrunching her face in cute distaste. "You're impossible." She shoved his shoulders flat against the sofa and rocked back into her gallop, penalising his silliness. John hissed as his cock was pumped with abandon until he fell into orgasm against his will, bellowing in anger and pleasure as she forced his release in thick, hot jets. She herself did not fall with him. He cursed, helpless as his goddess took her revenge.

She didn't let up, riding until he pleaded mercy before she finally let him slip free.

Cuddling into his lap, she sighed. "Twenty-two. Of all the ridiculous…"

John growled, sliding his arms around her back and holding on tight. "I'm perfectly serious."

"Were too if we were a tom and a queen, making kittens six at a time. I can promise you _all_ of my children, sir. But in a rational number."

"Hmm." He did not offer further argument. Instead, he simply kissed the top of her head as her ear lay cinched against his heart.

After many minutes, she spoke again. "I don't know what you do to me, either."

John didn't reply.

"It's been more than a year since our wedding, John. _A year_. Should not this…fever…sickness…I feel for you have abated by now? Are we not supposed to settle down? Be content? With books and dinner parties and visiting friends? Why do I continue to hate them all? Why is this…?" She sat up, drawing an invisible string between his heart and hers "…all I think about? All I want? My world has shrunk. I want nothing but your skin against mine, your lips against mine, your heartbeat in my ear." She shook her head, nibbling her lip in confusion.

John stared at her, the fine, dark arches of his brow braced like wings. Cold blue appraised her. She shrugged her shoulders. "I do not understand."

He pulled a hard, measured breath through his nose. "Twenty-two," he rumbled.

"John, be serious—"

"I _am_ serious. You talk to me of wanting nothing else but me for the rest of your life. You fuck me like I'm the only man you've ever seen. You drug me and addle me and reduce me to wanting nothing but you in kind. I'll give you my skin, and my lips, and my heart. Do with them what you will. But you'll make my many angels in payment. I want them. I want the world to see them. I want every last soul on this earth to know you're mine."

Warm blue met cold as she stared, amazed.

John waited.

She finally replied. "If you promise me they'll look like you."

He flinched. "I have no control."

"Nor I. But if we're to trade clouds and stardust, I want my fair share."

"Twenty-two, if I promise you that you'll see me in each of their faces."

"Yes. Not just your hair. Your eyes. Your smile. The very tips of their toes. Identical, or no deal."

"My goddess," he reached up, sliding his thumb over her kiss-swollen lips. "Done."


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

"Pa pa pa pa," a dark, patient burr repeated.

A shrill squeal answered.

The darkness chuckled, then tried again. "Pa pa pa pa."

"Wooooooo neeeeeee!"

"Silly girl. Pa pa."

Margaret slowed her walk in the hallway, drawn to the sounds in the library. As she peeked around the doorframe, something clattered and clanged and she spied her tall husband folded up into odd angles as he crouched on the rug beside their bright blonde children. Rose had a wooden spoon and a pot. Her little face radiated joy as her chubby arm arced back, gripping the spoon, and smashed the pot with gusto. Jonathon sat nearby, an uncanny look of concentration settled his brow as he arranged a set of blocks into a messy line.

Margaret bit her lips. Already, even at eight months old, Rose was clearly her mother's daughter. And Jonathan's cool head bespoke John.

"Pa pa pa pa." John's hunch was trained over his daughter, watching in fascination as the little girl ignored his coaching and put the spoon in her mouth. He laughed, his fingers tracing over her apple cheeks. She shrieked again and grabbed one. She threw the spoon and put her new prize into her mouth. John laughed harder.

"Na!" Jonathan yelled. He did not approve of the noise. A block went sailing into the cold fireplace.

"No," John corrected. He uncoiled and rolled onto his back, laying his full length, reaching for the boy. Both children took the opportunity to shuffle toward his prone form, gripping his shirt, slapping his arms. Rose grabbed his cravat and yanked. John tugged the knot loose and freed his throat, giving her the black strip without a fight. She shrieked again, giggling at she held it aloft.

Tears and giggles threatened Margaret. She held them back.

Jonathan grabbed John's watch chain, jerking it loose. The watch popped from his pocket and the boy grabbed it, crawling away with his stolen loot.

"No, you don't!" John flipped to his stomach and snatched his retreating bare foot. Jonathan squealed with glee and fought to escape, the watch held as far above his head as his little arm could reach.

Rose thought it a great game. She'd been allowed to keep her treasure. She took off in the opposite direction with her cravat. John's other hand whipped out and caught her ankle. Rose joined Jonathan in wailing against their capture. John roared as dragged them together, his fingers running over their tummies and sending them into fits. He wrested his watch from his son and stuffed it into his breast pocket.

"Thieves!" he accused in a boom.

"Ogre!" Margaret countered, beaming as she stepped into the room. "Won't you take pity on them, Magister, sir?"

"They know the rules," he scowled through a smile at their toothless grins.

"But they're so young. And from a good family. Surely you can let them go just this once?" She pleaded their case.

Jonathan grabbed the other end of the cravat. They both stuck an end in their mouths, chewing with mirrored concentration.

John's scowl melted into the softest adoration. "My babies." He lowered his face between theirs, kissing their cheeks. His broad back swallowed them from view, their tiny forms protected under a dense shield of muscle and bone. Rose grabbed his hair and yanked. Margaret blushed. Yes, Rose was certainly her daughter.

A familiar throb hit Margaret's belly as she watched her lover fawn over their children. The one that told her she had made a good decision in choosing this man. The one that told her that since he had proven such a good provider and guardian of her young, that she should make more with him. She chuckled at her body's reaction, her hand creeping over the small bump above her hips. Apparently her instincts to procreate did not care that she was already with child. They still raged at her to rip him from his clothes.

John looked up to find his wife caressing his next angel and gazing at him in that way he knew so well. His chest tightened in response. His muscles tensed, ready.

"How are you feeling today?" he asked. Conversation would help. He could not very well drag her to the floor in front of his curious little ones with servants popping in and out to check on them.

"Very well. I must say, the morning sickness I suffered with these two has missed me entirely. I can't say I miss it one bit."

"Indeed. Your energy knows no bounds this time 'round. I'm pleased you feel so much better."

"I wonder at it though. Perhaps it means that I only carry one."

John smirked. "Or perhaps you carry three."

"Hold your tongue!" she put her hands out in defence against such an idea.

Agnes appeared in the doorway. " 'scuse me, mistress. It's time for their bath."

Margaret could have sworn that John grumbled an objection under his breath. She turned to the girl and smiled. "Thank you. Please go ahead."

John leaned back, most unwillingly, as she gathered them up and lifted a baby onto each of Agnes' hips. The girl dipped and hurried away. Margaret turned to her husband still crouching on the floor, quite bereft without his playmates. "Would you raise two dirty little urchins?"

He reached out and tugged her hand, pulling her down to him. She carefully lowered herself to sit, her bump slowing her pace. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders. "It's your fault, darling. Stop making such magical little ones and I won't be so besotted with them."

"A high crime, indeed. My Magistrate husband is on a rampage today."

"Who could blame me? I'm beset by pickpockets and a white witch. The law is a paltry recourse, but it's the only protection I have."

Margaret sighed, leaning back into him. "Where is Hannah this morning?"

"Minding the sorting room floor."

"You've promoted Nicholas to overseer. Shouldn't that be his job?"

John settled his legs around her, pulling her back for firmly against his chest. The push and pull of his breath rocked her as their hands twined on her stomach. "I've sent him on an errand. Business has been good. Excellent, in fact. Your money not only saved my mill, it's given me an opportunity to expand. Higgins is scouting a new location."

"Mr. Bell's money," she corrected. "Now your money. I merely played the broker."

"Darling, it _is_ your money. It sits in its very own account, repaid in full with the interest you so pleasantly outlined to me that day. And there it will stay until you wish to use it. Or bequeath it to our children." He pressed down into their youngest. "I'll never touch your fortune again, so help me God. I'll keep you all comfortable with my own earnings. I pray that account is forgotten entirely, such will be your contentedness with me."

"It's already forgotten. Pray use it however you will. What is this new location Nicholas is exploring? Another mill?"

John chuckled low behind her. "Yes, though he's checking its suitability for a different type of loom."

"Must I guess?"

"You could easily. You'll recall when we met that I make cotton that, to quote you, _no one wants to wear_. That statement hooked into my mind. First because I was attracted to its owner, but second, because it's largely true. If I want to stay competitive in this marketplace, I'll need to diversify. Marlborough will continue to make cotton textiles, as there will always be a need for it. My new mill, is for something grander."

Margaret dropped her head back onto his shoulder, insight creeping in. She thought back to her letter from Edith so long ago, _I am sure we will always wear linen_, her cousin had insisted.

She turned, her forehead nestling into his stripped collar. "Velvet," she whispered. "You plan to make velvet."

"Half cotton, half linen. Seems an ideal metaphor for us, doesn't it, goddess?"

She grinned into the fabric. "With skirts becoming ever more voluminous, you'll make a fortune."

"Velvet is cheaper than silk. And easier to print upon than wool. Patterns can be more complicated. The Fannys of the world can spend the next fifty years outshining each other."

"You are the most clever fox, John. I'm delighted by this idea."

"I'll need more than your delight. I'm moving into dyes and prints as well. I have a gift for making pleasing textures, but no talent at all guessing what colours and styles will entice young women." He kissed her temple. "Will the prettiest young lady in England guide me?"

"Fanny is a far better resource, husband. I am too plain in my tastes."

"I'll certainly consult her, but yours is the final opinion in all decisions. You may choose simple designs for yourself, but I know you. I know your eye. You see elegance and symmetry where others only see bright colours. My sister is a subtle as a canary. And she does not innovate, merely follows whatever trend London would have her do, no matter how garish. That would put our product behind the curve in any case. I plan to create beauty, not imitate it. That is your gift, Margaret. Imagining what is possible. Please help me in this."

Margaret did not think it possible, but her lovesickness increased the smallest bit. This man. This wonderful, brilliant, handsome man. "Of course," she murmured. "Of course I'll help you in any way I can, and thank you for your faith in me. When do you plan to start production?"

"Six months, thereabout."

"This one will be coming then," she patted his hand on her bump.

"These," he corrected, smiling. "And don't worry. We'll hire a nanny. The maids and Mother cannot keep up with our brood at this rate. You'll have anything you want. But I won't part from my business associate. Not even if she's bearing my children. We'll order machinery. We'll borrow Fanny's infernal fashion magazines. I'll start investigating dyes. We'll see what's popular now, and then invent tomorrow from it."

Margaret kissed his throat. John set her back just enough to claim her lips with his.

Six months later, the first velvet mill in all of Milton opened to much fanfare. And Elizabeth—Bessie to her family—joined the Thornton family two weeks after that.

Her lone arrival and her wild red curls led to many grinning arguments. Both parents had failed to meet their promise of kettle black twins on this occasion.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N- Hi all. Ficlit here. Just wanted to say hi, as I haven't introduced myself in this one yet. I just wanted to say thanks to all who've read and reviewed Nary this last month. I don't plan to take it much further. Seriously, this series just hit me for some reason and their relationship needed smut, which is thin on the ground for this fandom. So I may stop here, as I have no real plot in mind. Plus I've covered some slightly weird things, so it may not be people's cuppa. There's only a few of us kicking around on this story, so hopefully no one's too broken up. **

**Drop a line if you feel differently! **

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

John should have known that if Margaret Hale was brave enough to take on a raging mob to protect him, was angelic enough to risk her fortune and her heart to save him, then she damn well would be brilliant enough to lift his mill from locally respectable to the toast of London's elite.

She was Margaret. A singular force of nature.

The velvet mill was successful beyond even his most hopeful projections. Christened Irwell Mill for the local river, its early days had met with only a few bumps and delays. Higgins had been placed in charge. After the Marlborough spinners had given their requisite teasing for him becoming such a fancy man, he selected his crew from among its members; women and men with nimble fingers and minds that would pick up the more complicated machinery than simple cotton looms.

It had taken time. Much raw cotton and linen were sacrificed to the god of industry as snags and uneven weaving ruined batch after batch. But Nicholas chose his people well. After a month, a steady stream of plain velvet sheets were produced. Higgins held his breath, muttered a prayer to a god he rarely spoke to, and handed the perfect specimens over to their novice dyers.

With trial and error, solid shades slowly becoming simple patterns, they learned their way.

The heap of scrapped fabric lay in the corner of the site's warehouse for months.

John had forgotten about them entirely until one day when Margaret visited with the twins. At two and a half years, they were whirling dervishes of the first order. The maids could not catch them. Their grandmother could not cow them. Their father had trouble keeping a stern face around them. And their nanny, Kate, had a slender hold on her decorum as she tried valiantly to get them to sit, to learn, to listen.

As usual, it was Margaret that touched their Thornton blood and awed them into stillness. No one else possessed the knack. It was no knack at all, really. Margaret did not hone a skill to tame them, they naturally bent into her, their wildness forgotten in her mere presence. John scoffed at this. Seeing his own vulnerability inherited by his children did not surprise him particularly. Jonathan, Rose and Bessie had an energy and an iron will that bespoke their father in more ways than he cared to admit. Their noisy, reckless abandon made him feel like the owner of a farm instead of a mill.

But then their mother would enter the room. Just like that, the farm quieted. Three bright blue sets of eyes grew in delight. For a moment, the parents and children stood in the eye of a hurricane. Then, his tearaways would bolt like wild horses. Straight lines ran in eerie precision directly at her. Her skirts were suddenly bedecked with a clumsy lace of little arms and legs and clutching fingers. They hushed. They stilled. They murmured their adoration with toddlers' eloquence.

Margaret smiled down at their sunny heads, caressing each one. Yellow and red sieved through her fingers as she asked them questions and waded through their collision of words.

John watched from the sofa. This skirt made of children pressed into the fabric of her dress. A small bump, his fourth attempt at his own likeness, perched above their heads. John had overheard Fanny snit that it seemed they only needed to breathe the same air to conceive. The sight of it filled him with ungentlemanly satisfaction. His woman, surrounded by his little ones and growing yet one more.

Yes. These children who looked nothing like him were most assuredly his. The fourth would be no different. Whether it was a boy who mimicked his features in every respect, or another changeling sprite like Bessie, they would worship his wife with a frightening, familiar zeal.

So, as she walked through Irwell, admiring its efficiency and complimenting a reddened Higgins for his efforts, Rose and Jonathan followed her, meek as lambs.

She lingered by the enormous pile of experimental scraps in the warehouse. The multi-coloured heap was too much for his little ones and they leapt into its bounty, shrieking as it swallowed them.

She smiled. "Failed attempts?"

"Aye," Nicholas answered. " 's a shame to loose so much raw material, but we had no choice. The velvet's pile is decent. Thickness too. Too many mistakes, though. If the master agrees I'll see that they're burned."

Margaret nodded, staring as scraps propelled from little human catapults.

John watched her watching them, the delicate wheels turning in her fine blue eyes. "What are you thinking?"

She blinked, then looked at him. Her thoughts had not passed from her gaze as she replied. "Nothing, really. May I keep them? I'd like to study them, even if our product has improved since their creation."

John bit his lower lip. He nodded.

The next day, Margaret slid one of Fanny's magazines under his nose at breakfast. He looked up from his broadsheet, the looping text a drastic change from his own reading. She leaned over and tapped a particular square.

"May I order one?"

John read the advertisement. He looked back at his ever-surprising wife. He nodded.

A month later when it arrived, Margaret sat down at her very own Singer foot pedal sewing machine.

Mary was sent to gather as many of the discarded scraps as she could carry from the Irwell warehouse.

When Margaret wasn't taken up with running the house or playing with their children, she could found bent over the odd contraption, her brow furrowed and her mind in some experimental place that John could not follow. He did not try. He continued to watch as she taught herself to use it. The house would fill with its strange locomotive tapping as her confidence and speed increased. She never offered to share her work or her thoughts with him on this particular project. He did not ask. He enjoyed the suspense too much.

_Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap_

He filled his first three orders for velvet for an Edinburgh milliner. Five more came in the week after that, four from London and one from Canterbury.

_Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap_

On a sunny afternoon three weeks later, he happened to be standing at his office window admiring the rare blue sky when he saw her emerge from their front door. His breath caught as it always did by the sight of her. His beautiful goddess, how he did love her. She wore a lovely pale pink dress with a simple white shawl. In her hands she held a brazen, bleeding rainbow.

John's eyes widened.

She carefully made her way down the stairs, out into the sunlight. She grabbed her rainbow by two of its four corners and shook it out. It snapped straight, flashing wildly. Three feet by three feet, if his draper's eye did not fail him. But it could not be contained by its own dimensions. A melting stained glass window, its cobalts and mustards and scarlets violently clashing against each other in mismatched shapes. There were so many that John could not even guess their number. They had no order. They had no pattern. The small blanket reminded him of his children—pure, dazzling chaos.

Margaret stretched a small section between her hands, examining the stitching in the light, deep in the thought she'd been swimming in for a month.

A rainbow will not go unnoticed in a mill.

Ginny, the young blonde spinner, came up to her. The girl had caught John's attention three years ago when Margaret had struck up such an effortless confidence with her. How she spent her earnings, if she would join the strike, if her mother was well. Ginny happily gave her love and loyalty to her mistress, another heart his wife collected without trying.

He could not hear their conversation. It was evident that Ginny was entranced. She rubbed her thumb over the corner of the piece. Margaret smiled bashfully. John knew her humility well enough to know that she was brushing off a compliment. The girl pointed to several of the scraps embedded in the maze, and Margaret waved her graceful hand in some description or other. Longing filled Ginny's thin, pale features. She had probably never touched anything so fine as a velvet rainbow.

Margaret laughed.

Without hesitation, she folded her rainbow diagonally, making a triangle. She turned the girl around and settled it over her grey, frayed blouse. Ginny spun on her heel, reaching up to remove it, talking in an animated language as she tried to give it back. Margaret laughed harder. She held her hands on the girl's shoulders, keeping the rainbow in place. She shook her head. She cupped her cheek as she spoke. Ginny's eyes were too wide as she listened to Margaret's insistence.

She looked so gobsmacked, the weight of her new shawl might have been the only thing keeping her grounded.

Margaret took one of her hands, held it in both of hers under her chin, then shooed her away back to the sorting room. The girl walked backward, watching her beloved mistress, waiting for her to change her mind and demand her treasure back. Nothing happened. She clutched her most prized possession tight around herself and bobbed low before turning to run.

Margaret waved. Once alone, she chuckled to herself. One hand cupping her bump, she made her way back to the front door.

John attacked her that night. Mindful of their babe, but astounded that her imagination was only outmatched by her kindness, he made sure she fell three times before he allowed himself to shatter in her arms. In their afterglow, he bound her up against him, whispered his devotion, and mentioned what he'd seen in the yard that day.

"A magical creature," he murmured into her hair. "She does not spin straw into gold, but I watched her make a rainbow from scraps, then coronate the greyest little dove with it."

Soft, tempting skin slid against his own. She hummed in amusement. "Pity," she kissed him. "I would have liked to have seen that very much."

In the next month, John filled his five orders. More offcuts, even finer and more decadent, joined the pile in the warehouse.

When Mary delivered the next pile that her mistress had requested, she did not ask about Ginny's shawl. She wanted to so badly, however. Ginny had become an object of great envy. She wore her shawl everywhere, preening with modest pleasure at every working woman's glance. None of them had a sewing machine, and while they knew their way around textiles, they had no time to hand stitch such a complicated thing, nor could they afford the fabrics needed to match Ginny's finery.

Out of the corner of her eye, Margaret saw Mary caress a particular piece as she arranged them into some order. A striking shade—imperial yellow, bright as the sun itself. It was one of the newer prints, the loom operators had perfected their pile. Small, delicate fleur de lis rose up from its splendour, oxblood in hue.

Margaret smiled to herself. She did that often these days.

Her next piece was even more dizzying than the first. The colourful chaos centred around a French sun, complete with orange starburst pattens. She elongated the piece to make a wrap. She finished its bottom edge with long, vermillion tassels.

Mary was shocked at her gift. Like Ginny, she seemed unable to accept it. Margaret said she deserved far grander than her unskilled hands could produce, but she wanted the girl to know she was loved and appreciated for all of her efforts.

Mary, like Ginny, was not often seen without it.

And so it began.

One of the young fluff gatherers tugged on Margaret's skirt one day and asked in her shy, seven year old voice if the mistress would kindly make a dress for her doll. The mistress agreed, borrowed the rag doll, and week later presented the girl with a miniature queen. Her emerald gown was finished with a train trimmed with white rabbit fur. Her bodice was lined with glass seed beads that Hannah had begrudgingly agreed to stitch in.

The girl nearly cried at the transformation.

Agnes asked for a bonnet.

Rose asked for a blanket.

Jonathan asked for an army tent.

Even Hannah, who originally thought the design a blinding mess, muttered that it might be nice to have a lap cover for the colder months while she worked on her own sewing projects.

Margaret threw herself into each request, delighted that anyone took an interest. Her sweet pleasure in making other people happy only served to enslave John further. And pounce on her with even more urgency.

Their fourth, James, was born in October. Margaret barely let anyone else hold him for longer than five minutes. She wrapped him up, warm and happy against her breast, grinning at her lover as he tried unsuccessfully for a turn. She ran her fingers through James' fine, black wisps atop his tiny head.

A strange burst of emotions welled in John as he watched. A dark, proud jealousy. "You have failed," he rumbled in his lowest octave.

She looked up. "Have I now?"

"I have held up my end. A son with my face. Where is his twin? You promised me."

She giggled. "And _you_ promised _me_ he'd be identical in every way. He has your hair, I do not deny. You certainly took your time sharing it. But your beautiful eyes, your smile, the tiny little parts that comprise the whole, will not be known for years to come. You may have only partially delivered, sir."

"Nonsense. What orders I take, I meet. Ask any of my customers."

"I don't need to. I have two blondes and a redhead as proof against your claim." Both lines of her teeth flashed at him. "Indeed, I am the only one who has indisputably kept my word. But James?" She shook her head sadly. "You may have some explaining to do if there's a single bit of difference between you."

"Just you wait a month. I'll fill you with yet another one of my promises."

She snuggled down into their bed. "In the meantime." She kissed their baby's head. The proud envy tightened its grip on John, squeezing his lungs. If she fell so in love with James' soft black hair, perhaps it had been unwise to give her his likeness in a child. John's own head would be neglected. He dipped low to her prone form. He kissed her gently.

"Pet me," he whispered.

She smiled, rolling her eyes. She raked her hand through his hair. Electrical current passed through his scalp, curling his very toes. It was enough for now.

During that month, she completed Hannah's lap cover and Jonathan's little tent, which John finished with poles fashioned from willow branches.

The pattern, Margaret's Mess, became locally famous.

As Irwell's reputation grew in the larger cities as a manufacturer of excellent quality velvet in patterns that Margaret had predicted would excite the upper crust, local appetites could not be slaked for the flashy productions of their remnants. What had started as gifts for the women of Marlborough and Irwell Mills became quite the rage in the city. Tidy sums of money were offered for the pieces, not that their owners would part with them unless some dire circumstance made the offer too attractive to pass up.

Margaret was stunned when Mrs. Hamper rushed up to her in a most surprising burst of excitement one evening at a social gathering. "My dear, you simply _must_ indulge me," she breathed at the younger woman, holding her hands between hers. "One of our spinners was wearing the most extraordinary bonnet the other day and I demanded to know where she's obtained it. She told me none other than the mistress of Marlborough Mills had made it for her!"

Margaret squinted. "Sarah, do you mean?"

"Yes! I think so, anyway. Who can keep them all straight? But I must have one, dear. She said it was known as Margaret's Mess and I found that too charming! Name your price, but I'd love it before the season starts so that I might walk with it."

"Price? Oh no, Mrs. Hamper. I simply make them in my free time. There's no need to—"

"Nonsense, girl, I'll not take a single ribbon in charity. We tradesman's wives understand the value of labour. Three shillings for your trouble. I'm very partial to blue."

And with that, the woman swept away.

John, who had been standing by his wife with his arm threaded with hers, gave a badly-hidden smile to the floor.

"Stop it," she muttered at his amusement. "Not one word."

"For a woman so appalled by our Milton ways at the beginning, you've certainly found an unlikely calling."

"Hush!" She hissed through a smile. "I shan't take a pence from her."

"We can't feed the children on pride, darling."

"That's enough. I won't have you laughing so hard at me in public. Put that smile away lest I remove it myself."

"Perhaps I need a mask. Might you make me one for three shillings? I hear they're all the rage and I simply refuse to be left out of the trend—"

Margaret locked his arm into her side and pulled him with determination through the house. She pushed him into the dark space beneath the stairs and knocked him dizzy with her methods of bringing him to heel.

The next day, she pinned a bonnet using primarily blue scraps. It took her two weeks to complete. Its new owner would not stop gushing at its outlandish charm.

But the true serendipity occurred when Baron Londesborough of York and his very young bride Alice descended into Milton with all of their gold-leafed bluster. Once again, the old bloods were fancying that any occupation undertaken by the nouveau riche must be as simple as printing money. As they understood very little of hard work, they assumed, as they did in most things, that simply wanting a thing was tantamount to accomplishing it.

Such was Londesborough and his notions of velvet. Alice, for all her lack of understanding, didn't care about velvet production. She just like pretty things. They had heard the rumours that Irwell had starting using mauve dye. It was the latest craze. A colour so violent, so rich, that it defied description. Margaret had read about it in a bulletin put out by the Royal Society of Chemistry. It had intrigued her. She showed the notice to John. His lust for innovation melded with hers. They ordered a batch.

John accepted their self-invitation with as much grace as he could exude through a pen, and met them at the train station with Margaret in accompaniment. He needed her sweet hostess abilities. The Baron may have been a simpleton, but he was far richer a simpleton that any John knew. The Baroness was the shining socialite of London. Her opinion on this season's prints could make or break the next four months of orders. John understood the importance of this meeting. He also understood his own limitations for foolishness. Margaret, though just as intolerant of fools, hid hers with a talent born of her station.

The foursome greeted each other cordially. Alice, not eighteen years if she was a day, detached from her middle-aged husband and clasped onto Margaret like a much-missed sister.

"You must show me everything, Mrs. Thornton," she breathed in a feathery voice. "The train has bored me something terrible and I'm in need of diversion. Is it true you've started using mauve?" She rolled the word across her tongue like the exotic thing it was.

Margaret lost no time in warmly accepting her arm. "Yes," she grinned conspiratorially. "Have you seen it in person yet?"

The girl shook her head. "My sister travelled to Paris where she bought a sofa. She writes whole pages about its beauty. It seems most unfair that the inventor is English and I must hear of its wonders from the continent. And only after he was trying to find a cure for malaria did he discover it! What an odd world. But more mill owners are interested, I cannot wait until I have an entire season's worth dyed in its hue."

They giggled together.

John heard them, their enthusiasm seeping under the monotone of the Baron as he droned about the particulars of the engine that had pulled them here. He sighed. He could not always bask in Margaret's magic. Sometimes he was tasked with simply clearing a path for others to fall under her spell.

When they arrived at Irwell, Margaret knew that Alice would not be interested in the machinery, just as John knew the Baron would care nothing for the finished product. Both took their guest to the part of the mill that would hold their interest. As Alice walked through the storehouse, she cooed happily over the forest of velvet bolts sprouting throughout the room.

"I could live here," she murmured, swinging from one velvet pole to the next. "Tell me you have a dress in every colour."

Margaret smiled. "Not at all. My tastes run plainer. These velvets are meant for the Alices of this world, young and vibrant women who were born to shine."

Margaret was glad John was not present. Though she meant every word, he would no doubt have praised her salesmanship. She could not very well shut him up with kisses in front of a Baroness, so she thanked him for his absence.

Alice gasped as she discovered Irwell's latest experiment.

Tucked in the back (mostly to keep rival mill owners from spying), were the mauve bolts. Shocking, vivid, not-quite-violet that had never been seen before three years ago was there, rolled quietly as if its existence hadn't rocked the textile world.

Some were solid. Others plaid. Others crushed. Others striped with deep purple. Some for upholstery. Most for ladies' wear.

Alice let out a small, long sigh. She fingered each one with Christly reverence. Her eyes gorged on a flavour they did not understand.

"All of them," she whispered. "I want all of them."

Margaret blinked, laughing nervously. "There are over fifty bolts. Hundreds of yards of—"

"I don't care. I'll take every last one. Plus twenty yards each of the others. Today."

Margaret was silent.

She watched the young millionaire as she slowly nestled into the soft cylinders. Alice's eyes closed. Then opened again, unable to look away for long.

Margaret groped for something to say as the girl grew increasingly tactile with the cloth. "I'm so pleased you like it, Alice. Your opinion means the world to us."

"I'll need it shipped to my dressmaker in London."

"Of-of course."

"Can it be on the train tonight?"

"I'll…need to speak with John. We may need longer," she hurried. "To ensure that its packed and protected properly. I won't have your fine velvet ruined by poor handling."

Alice smiled at this. As far as she was concerned, the deal was done.

"Might we take some sun? It's cold in here." She rubbed her thin arms.

Margaret guided her to Irwell's yard. Though not pretty, there was a buzz of activity that kept their attention as they spoke of London and all things gentle and fine. Alice seemed relaxed and happy (with her velvet hoard secured), enjoying the company of a gentlewoman in this ugly, mechanical place.

Mary walked passed them, bobbing to her mistress as she took a cloth sack of food to Higgins. The man enjoyed his new position (and increased pay) very much, but he sorely missed their sup hall. Mary would take him leftovers when she could. There were already plans to fit one of the storerooms. Both John and Margaret agreed, the sup hall had answered the workers' hunger for food, parity, and fair play. Irwell would feed its people soon enough.

As the girl walked away, her wrap flashed brightly, its French sun riding on her back like a sailor's tattoo. Its elegant tassels swung with her step.

Alice took another surprised inhalation. "Girl!" Her voice rang out across the yard. Twenty workers stopped mid-step, turning to the sound of an ornate looking princess standing by their mistress. Mary spun around, a look of terror filling her young features.

"Come here," Alice called just as loudly, gesturing impatiently.

Mary ran to them, bobbing lower this time. Her eyes cut between the two women. One she knew to be kind and wonderful, but this other? She felt herself slowly pulled apart as this lady, the same age and height as herself, dissected her appearance. "Turn around."

"Baroness Londesborough," Margaret said. "This is Mary Higgins. She's one of our workers and a dear friend. Mary, meet the Baroness—"

Alice waved her hand, cutting her off. The girl did not turn so she simply stepped behind her. With a right given to the highborn, Alice ran her hands over the girl's shoulders, taking in the texture of her wild-looking garment. "What is this?" she asked.

"M…my wrap, miss."

"It's velvet. How on earth could you afford such a thing?"

Mary gave Margaret a panicked look. Margaret nodded with encouragement. She could answer.

"Miss…Miss Margaret made it for me, miss. From the scraps we don't use."

Alice peeked over Mary's shoulders at her hostess. "Is this true?"

"Yes," Margaret answered with a modest shrug. "Merely a hobby."

"She's famous," Mary defended, both proud and fearful. "Everyone knows a Margaret's Mess when they see one. She can't make them fast enough."

Alice resumed her place in front of the girl, eyeing her. "How much will you take for it?"

"Miss?"

"The wrap. It's fantastical. I must have it."

"Oh, but…" she gave Margaret a pleading look. "If you please, miss. The mistress made it for me. I couldn't possibly part with—"

"Five pounds."

Both Mary and Margaret gasped at such an outrageous sum. Several fine dresses could be bought at that price.

Mary look ready to faint with indecision.

"Please," Margaret took Alice's arm. "Let me make you one. It would be an honour. I've just finished my latest and would welcome a new project."

At this, Alice turned to her with her full, unnerving attention. "A gown," she said.

Margaret blinked several times. "A… gown?"

"Yes, a full gown. As wild as you can make it. The season's masquerade is in four months and this splendid pirate's cloth will be unmatched by anyone. I've never seen anything like it, which means none of them will have either. Margaret's Mess is a Milton secret, yes?"

"Yes," Margaret replied. "Honestly, it's just a lark. Something to occupy my hands."

"A gown will occupy them. I'll pay you twenty pounds for the finished piece. I'll have my dressmaker send you my measurements."

The ungodly sum of money drained the colour from Margaret's cheeks. "I don't possess the skill to make such a complicated garment."

"Then simply create enough fabric and send it to him. He can complete the gown himself."

Margaret breathed an internal sigh of relief. Wraps and shawls were one thing. A ballroom gown was quite another.

"Twenty pounds still stands for the patched fabric. Two hundred in total for the mauve and other lengths. Ah, here come our husbands." She walked toward the two men, leaving the two women in utter befuddlement.

Mary leaned in. "May I keep my wrap, mistress?"

"Of course. You go on now, Mary." She patted the girl's hand.

That night, she lay in John's arms.

As she suspected, she could not keep a grin from his face anymore than she could keep his hands anywhere proper.

"Of all the most ludicrous things!" She hid under his chin.

"I told you," he crowed over her. "My goddess. My white witch. My manufacturing little genius."

"You hush now!"

"I turn around for thirty minutes and you've sold half my stock at triple its worth. Powerful," he tickled her rib, "...magical," he tickled the other side, "...Margaret the Merchant of Milton."

"I claim no credit. That girl had no idea the worth of the money she offered. Two and two-hundred were all the same to her."

"And yet, no manufacturer in the history of Milton has struck such a deal, never mind on their first attempt. Would you be willing to share your spell with me? What ingredients do I need? Where must the moon sit? What incantation will make them offer a war chest for dress cloth?"

"Stop it before I make her gown with your hide!"

He tasked her. "Too rough." His hands slid down under her thighs. "Yours however…"

She kissed his smug, endearing face.

They wrestled together, fighting with no words and both wanting to lose.


	14. Chapter 14

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

_Dear Edith,_

_Thank you for you latest letter, as always I delight at seeing my name written in your hand when the post arrives. The captain's latest adventures in India sound too exotic, like a storybook and not a person's real life. You must send me samples of the silks he brought you. If the blues are as beautiful as you say, it's a crime to keep them to yourself. Perhaps if you've enough to spare I'll use it to make more frocks for Bessie's and Rose's dolls. I've become quite the seamstress with my new sewing machine! Only with scraps, mind you. I've been working with remnants for so long that I laugh when I think of how lost I would be with an actual length of proper fabric. _

_Fanny's daughter Eugenia continues to thrive. She's such a lovely thing, every bit as blonde as the twins. You should see them all together. They remind me of us, cousins as close as siblings. I pray that they grow to love each other as well and you and I do. _

_James turned nine months last week. I cannot believe how much he looks like his father. After three children who wear not a single trait of their parents, he is so very striking. Do not tell John I said so. He will be unbearable if I admit that James is his perfect copy. But to you, I can confess that it's wonderful. The most beautiful boy you've ever seen (after your own, of course) with the thickest mop of black hair and biggest, bluest eyes. I wonder if he looks like John when he was a baby. I melt at the thought. I suppose I could ask Hannah, but something stops me. Perhaps I am the romantic you always suspected I was, preferring the possibility over the truth. How odd we become in marriage! _

_The social season is officially over, thank goodness. John has scarcely blinked, the mills have been so busy. I think he may sleep for a week! I'm very curious to know how ours was received. I told you the Baroness insisted on wearing my patchwork? It took me seven weeks to complete the length needed for her gown, plus extra for any purse or hat she may want. I must admit that I was more scheming than with any of my other garments, and made sure to include our prettiest patterns in the mix. Do you think me devious? I could not help it, you see. John's velvet is so lovely! I think he would have been an artist in another life, for his hand on textiles is truly expressive. Anyway, I hope the final result was a success, and the Baroness enjoyed herself at the masquerade. _

_Speaking of enjoyment, I was hoping you might ask Aunt Shaw if she would kindly- _

"My goddess."

Margaret startled. She glanced up from her writing desk at the sound of her husband's voice as he stood in the library's doorway.

She went to acknowledge him by speaking his name, but the look on his face frightened her voice away. The smallest, strangest breath escaped instead.

His tall frame filled the door. He was staring at her. _Glaring_ at her. Margaret's eyes widened at the expression she knew well, but had not seen in many moons. Her husband was so usually tempered by logic and sweetness, he had few reasons these days to allow his anger to rise. She'd forgotten how emotion could capture his face, draw it tight until rage and passion threatened to crack his skin. He fought it, trying to keep his composure. The result was a beautiful, terrifying statue that looked hot to the touch.

A poor, defenceless stack of papers was strangled in his fist.

"John?" His name was the softest question.

A thin, wolfish smile touched his lips. He slammed the door shut behind him.

He fell to his knees.

He fell to his hands.

The papers rustled in his grip as he started to crawl, slow and hungry, across the room to her desk. His eyes never left hers as he shrank the space between them.

Margaret gasped at the sight.

Her husband was stalking her.

Moving in such a predatory lope that she felt her mouth fall in an O of shock. She was being chased down in slow motion. Her limbs froze in ancient recognition of the hunt. Her mind went blank. _What was wrong? What had she done? _

The room was not particularly large. It did not take him long to reach her small desk. Margaret yelped as John grabbed one of its spindly legs and shoved it aside. Her papers and inkwell shivered, nearly falling off the edge. Margaret didn't notice. Her husband was now before her, crouched at her feet and looking ready to rip her apart.

Her heart smacked hard against her ribs.

She had trouble breathing.

Confusion swam in her eyes. Her pink Cupid's bow lips caught his eye and he bared his teeth at them.

Somewhere, deep dark in her chest, she felt so…very…_exhilarated_.

Without unpinning her from the daggers of his stare, he plucked the first crinkled piece of paper and set it in her lap. She picked it up and examined it. The newspaper article shook in her fingers as she read silently.

_As the London season of 1856 draws to a close, we should like to highlight the delights of British ingenuity and style that have been made possible through our technological superiority and natural elegance, as was witnessed in our fair ladies' formal wear. British textiles are now the envy of the civilised world, and it could not be more apparent in the designs made possible by these innovative times. No one specimen proved this truth more than Baroness Londesborough of York, the young ingenue who has effectively stolen every heart of wider London society. In the last few weeks, the beautiful belle cut a striking figure in several delightful mauve ensembles, one woman of only three to do so, as the colour is still considered too bold and indecent by much of the older elite. But the 18-year-old showed no such trepidation as she manoeuvred each gathering with a proud and graceful mien. _

_But her master stroke came at the apropos evening of the masquerade, at which she showcased the most astonishing gown constructed of thousands of pieces of the most decadent velvet this correspondent has ever seen. She wore her long hair unpinned, capped with a man's tricorn hat of the same material. A most outrageous cutlass was strapped to her waist. Modelling herself after Anne Bonney, arguably one of the most famous female pirates in British history, the Baroness turned five hundred heads as her patch gown drew shock, admiration and ire from every quarter. When this reporter queried the origin of such a notorious garment, the Baroness replied, "It's known as Margaret's Mess. She's a passionate gentlewoman who married a brilliant manufacturer, and together they've made the most beautiful velvets England has to offer. I'm only pleased I was able to obtain some. The Thorntons of Milton are in high demand." _

_The Baroness was seen dining at—_

Margaret let the clipping fall from her fingertips.

John had not moved from his attack position at her feet.

Snorting at her, he placed the next slip on her lap.

A handwritten note on very expensive stationary met her eyes as she read. "…_as the dressmaker for Lady Lucy Greenwood…my mistress requires twenty yards…a particular patch of the Baroness's gown described as striped apple green velvet…any price you deem fair…I'll also take another seventy yards represented in the gown, as its popularity will require speedy order filling…yours, etc_."

John dropped another, light lavender note.

"…_I'm absolutely in love with the bright yellow velvet of Alice's gown…It had red fleur de lis on it?…I must have twenty-five yards…money is no object…please send the bill to my husband at the following address_…"

He dropped another.

"…_the mauve! How scrumptious!…I'm concerned about availability…I'll take your entire current stock…I've enclosed a banker's cheque for one hundred pounds to cover the…send immediately_…"

Another.

"…_from the Royal Milliner…Princess Victoria…the sixteen year old Royal Highness…after spending an evening with Baroness Londesborough…extends her wish for a tour…make sure the appropriate steps are taken for a royal visit…plans for her trousseau as marriage proposals are considered_…"

John tipped the rest, raining a pile onto her plain white skirt.

"I have two thousand pounds worth of orders."

His low pitch vibrated in her bones. Margaret swallowed. Her throat felt dry. She swallowed again.

"I…" she stuttered.

"You what?"

John rose up on his knees. He backhanded the notes off her skirt without a glance. He clapped his hands on the sides of her chair and leaned over her lap. Margaret shrank against its back, lowering her gaze to her clasped hands as his face came within inches of hers.

She wilted further as his loom only seemed to grow.

"Who the hell are you?" He accused in a whisper.

"John?"

"Who sent you, woman? Was it God or a demon bent on breaking me?"

"Are you angry with me?"

"_Angry_."

"Yes," she replied.

He snorted again. "Angry. With the woman who gave me fifteen thousand pounds. And then her kiss. And then her hand. Then her virgin sex and perfect tits. Then my children. And now she's given me more money, fame and royal attention than is dignified for a common wretch."

Margaret bit her lip at his vulgarity. She clenched her thighs as her no-longer-virgin sex responded to his praise. John felt her shift between his hands. His grin was frightening.

"Not at all. You see, I'm here to bow at your altar, as I always have. I prayed for all of those things and have received nothing short of obscene good luck. The Lord cannot love me this much, I am sure. So you must be here to destroy me instead. Raise me so high that I lose sight of myself, then dash me to pieces for my sins."

He grabbed the hem of her skirt. He reached underneath and Margaret gasped as he unlaced her drawers.

"Husband, what are you—?"

"Praying," he interrupted.

"The children are awake! The house is full of serv—"

He stripped the garment off and away. "Open your legs."

Margaret's heart spiked in her throat. She could not tear her eyes away from his. "John, please…"

"Open your damned legs, goddess. I'll never drink the blood of Christ, but I sure as hell will drink you."

She gasped again, her nails biting into her palms.

He didn't wait. He pushed her skirt under her clenched fists, threw her knees over his shoulders and buried his face in her heat.

John's mind was nothing more than a snake pit of desire and jealousy. His office had become a depository for his wife's fan mail. Sacks of letters had been sent after the ball, all baying for Margaret's patterns and clever patchwork. He'd be filling orders for months at full capacity and naming whatever absurd price he liked. He'd need ten sewing machines and ten girls to create enough of the Mess to satisfy demand. As he read through each note from these insanely rich aristocrats as they clawed at a piece of his woman, a cold, black arrogance filled him.

Margaret was one of these aristocrats.

These were her people.

She'd rejected them. She'd chosen him, a lowborn.

But.

She would always be this Other, a woman who belonged to this gentility, where she could have easily found three dozen men who would have grovelled on their hands and knees, and with far more eloquence than his. The universe had not meant to leave her in Milton, to deliver her to John so offhandedly. Why had the heavens not opened up and announced her presence among mortals? How had he meant to prepare for being torn apart by her, then rebuilt as a man both loved and in love by her grace? He was strong. But muscle was a man's strength. What use was it against his goddess' will?

Unless tearing him apart was the Devil's plan.

He'd found her writing her letters in the library, minding her own damn business, as if she hadn't blown up his old life and replaced it with Utopia. Somehow it made him even more unhinged.

Now, gazing at her stripped and trembling flesh, he shook with violent thoughts. Her sex was so small. Creamy skin with the barest dusting of curls. Her pink little petals drove him the maddest, its timid flower only ever seen by him, looking hopeful, as if shyly asking for him.

He dove tongue first.

Margaret muffled a scream as he attacked with fury. She arched off the chair, her thighs clenching around his head. She cried behind her hand.

"I suggest you scream, lover," he mocked as he dipped his fingers inside her. "Otherwise someone may walk in."

Margaret cursed him. He paid no mind and drank from her like a man dying of thirst. She twisted in his grasp, fighting against him and the chair. She rose higher and higher, her cries freely escaping and filling his ears.

She went rigid around him and screamed. He didn't let up.

She was still in her throes when he yanked her off the chair. Insensible, she did not anticipate when he laid her down beneath him and slid into her fluttering heat. She moaned as her flesh stretched wide around him. She arched, shocked and delighted. Their clothes were too hot and restrictive. Her hands rubbed along the sleeves of his jacket as he held himself above, moaning as he squeezed between those tiny petals.

"Yes," she whispered. She cupped his cheek. "My love."

The ice broke in his eyes. He lowered and kissed her chastely. A stray memory passed in her head of their first kiss, with this same gentle press of lips and many sets of clothes between them. That Margaret would have fainted at the idea of John _inside of her_ while they shared that moment. Now, she held him tight and hummed at how delicious he felt moving back and forth.

"I'm close," he muttered against her lips. "I can never endure how good you feel."

She smiled. "Then I suggest you scream," she teased.

He crashed into her hips in a frenzy. He threw his head back, his eyes slammed shut. Margaret's dress shoved and burned against her back. Her corset was too tight. John was heavy. He drove deep one final time and roared at his terrifying decibel.

Margaret watched. She tipped her head back, enjoying all of the discomforts as her formidable husband came apart in her arms.

Shaking, he lowered himself and gathered her up, flipping them skirts over suit until she lay on top of him. She giggled, snuggling into his shirt and waistcoat. Her bunched dress pressed a lump into her stomach. She missed his skin.

However, this was certainly risqué and she relished how every encounter with John felt new and invigorating.

"What on earth possessed you, my darling?" She murmured into his chest.

He rumbled beneath her. "My usual mixture of love, disbelief and jealousy."

"You can't be serious. After the years we've spent together?"

"I have a river of letters, all describing your brilliance, written to me by my betters. Your equals. They're in love with you, as anyone who meets you ever is. I get this…. pressure… in my chest. It hurts. It's ugly. I want to lock you away from them, make sure they never know you as I do. Forgive me, I know I'm ridiculous."

"So you decided to stake your claim in a different way?" She opened her mouth against his throat, teasing him.

He bared it further, inviting her exploration. "Yes. I want my tongue inside you when you scream. And then I want to fill you up until _I _scream."

"I hardly need reminding that I love you, John. Nor how heavenly you feel when you hold me." She lifted up, looking down and tracing the delicate bone of his outer eye. "I am not a goddess. Nor a demon. I am not a succubus, nor a witch, nor any magical creature that has her heart set on your downfall. I'm just Margaret. I lived a small life, in a small place, and one day we moved here and I found the great love of my life. I didn't expect to. I thank God every day that he put you in my path."

She traced his lips. "I. Thank. God. For you."

"You may. But I will still only worship _you_."

"Your piety is misplaced, sir." She giggled.

"Never."

"You're right about those Londoners. They don't know me. They never will. They want fabric, John, not me. You were the one who foresaw their lust for velvet, and here you are, right on the dot. Perhaps it is I who should be jealous. Those women would probably fall head over heels for a beautiful man who makes such stunning clothes for them."

"Figures I would marry a woman who cares nothing for stunning clothes."

"I'll thank you very much! I thought you liked my clothes."

"Every stitch. But the day you wear mauve is the day I eat a bolt of the stuff."

"I may yet, just to see that." She shivered with laughter on top of him.

A tiny set of feet ran at full speed outside the door, from one end of the hall to the other.

John shot upright, holding her in his lap. He cupped his hand over her giggles. She tongued his fingers, testing his stern face as he listened for their wild pack. He broke into a grin. They stood and quickly put their clothes together. Margaret went to pick up her drawers, but John beat her to them. Whipping them into his pocket, his wife gasped and tried to grab them back.

"They're mine," he hissed, trapping her arms behind her back. "You must spend the day without them. When your skirt brushes all those lovely places, you'll think of me."

"I will not!" She hissed in scandal. "I cannot! John, I—" she looked horrified. "You…you'll run down my thighs."

He couldn't believe it, but her whisper made him instantly hard. The thought of his semen trickling out of her, making her squirm...it did wild, distracting things to him. "Only a little," he replied in her ear as she wiggled against him. "Use the rest to make Five and Six."


	15. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

It had been six months since the infamous masquerade.

Six months since the name Thornton had flourished on London tongues. Six months since the Baroness had sung their praises and sealed their fate as a preferred supplier of textiles to the wildly rich. Six months, in which John had had no choice but to hire more hands to fill demand for both regular velvet and Margaret's Mess. There was no shortage of Milton men and women who wanted to work at Irwell. Making velvet did not create as much fluff to be choked on. And word had spread that Marlborough and Irwell were now the superior mills to work at than any other in town, by far. The master had always been fair, but his mistress had tamed him into something kinder altogether. His honest dealings were now improved with a trust in his people, a concern for their welfare, and most importantly, food. He took a cut of their combined wages and bought them food at a reduced rate at more consistent availability. Both mills now had a sup hall that fed every last worker (and many of their young children), and well enough that the trenches between their muscles and bones filled slightly with fat stores. Unheard of. Naturally, any open positions that opened up in either location were besieged with applications from Slickson and Hamper mill workers.

Neither master was happy at this lack of loyalty and told John as much.

The tall man shrugged at their displeasure. "Loyalty cuts both ways," was all they got by way of apology.

John was even considering a third shift, twenty-four hours six days a week when Irwell would operate at full tilt, when Margaret gently put her hands on his shoulders. "No," she smiled, shaking her head.

He frowned, the Thornton crease between his brows cutting deep. "We have more than enough orders to fill the time."

Margaret's heart skipped at his expression. After five years of marriage, her husband only had to fill his lungs with air and blink his translucent eyes to affect her so. "Tell them no," she repeated. "You are John Thornton. Dubbed brilliant by the upper class and delightful by a princess. Our velvet is the best, and not readily obtained. We do not dance when a penny is tossed in our hat." Her hands smoothed over the thick material. She felt the warmed marble of his body beneath.

He rolled his eyes. The royal visit by Princess Victoria had been a ridiculous success. The girl was a naturally curious thing, and had taken great pleasure in her tour. It had ended with her taking nearly as much velvet as the Baroness, and at even handsomer prices. As they had shown her around, Margaret could not help but notice that under the girl's impeccable comportment, she had glanced at John more than once. At first it was simply Her Highness listening to him as he explained each piece of equipment as they moved through the mill. But as John would walk away, or turn to address a worker, Victoria's eyes followed. Their watery blue took in the hard, straight line of his shoulders. Her pink lips parted at the sound of his dark commands. That gaze cut sideways when he resumed his place beside her and continued their walk.

Margaret saw.

John was oblivious.

Margaret fell in step behind them. She knew, of course. There was nothing to worry about from this young woman. She was hardly more than a child. She was looking in admiration at a handsome man, as women have done since the dawn of time. She was leaving at the end of the day, never to return to this northern cotton hub. Her admiring gaze would return to the high courts of Europe where it belonged, fluttering at princes who would compliment her fine velvet dresses as they played for her hand.

_Still._

Margaret's stomach had tightened. A strange feeling settled over her. It wasn't pleasant. But then, it wasn't entirely unwelcome either. It felt as if some viperous animal had taken root deep in her belly. It did _not_ like the way this girl appraised her man, frisking his shoulders, his hair, even his hands where his wedding band dampened single women's expectations. This beast was built entirely of fangs and quills, stings and talons. It bristled, and each sharp edge pierced some vital organ. Blood, bile, acid poured from each cut and tinted her eyesight. Everything looked redder.

_Younger,_ it hissed.

_Pretty._

_Rich. Powerful. _

Behind her pleasant smile, she bared her blunt teeth at its observations. So what if this slip of a teenage child mooned over her husband? At thirty-seven, John could be her father. John _was_ a father, of four perfect children that _she_ had borne him. And Margaret had already missed her courses this month, so she was fairly certain that John's beloved fifth was already on the way. John wasn't even _looking_ at his pretty guest. Instead he gestured this way and that, talking in his even tones that he used with old men. His attentions and respect ended at those two boundaries.

The princess had thanked him profusely as she left. She thanked Margaret as well. Margaret's smile did not falter. It hid her bared teeth.

That night, Margaret reinforced her claim.

Both of them naked, she pinned John beneath her and she kissed him as if he were a sailor returned from years at sea. Her soft lips mapped his whole face, pressing invisible brands into his skin. May other women somehow see them and understand their warning. This man was not theirs to appraise. He was marked. Taken. _Owned. _

Her forcefulness surprised him. He chuckled, her weight nothing as his flesh acted as her mattress. Questions filled his crystalline eyes as he cupped her cheek and made her look at him. "My love?"

Her smile felt angry. "Too right."

She slipped down the long valley of broad, flat muscles that comprised her lover. She followed the fine, dark hairs that concentrated on his sternum, then formed a path right to her destination. With no warning, she swallowed him deep.

"Aaah!" John went rigid. One hand shot to the headboard behind him, gripping it tightly. The other spread into her unbound hair, cupping her head as she sucked him hard and fast. "Darli-" he sputtered, groaning and writhing under her lips. "I…I cannot…".

Margaret watched as his stomach rippled and clenched. He undulated beneath her, trusting and begging and hers. His eyes were shut tight and his lips poured a river of incoherent praise.

So beautiful, she thought. So wild and strong and _unfairly _beautiful.

She pinned his thrusting hips under her palms, shoving him still. She took him as deep as her throat allowed, sucking so hard that her cheeks hollowed out around him. He roared. He was already close. She pulled up and let him go with a pop. "Do not finish," she warned him, scattering kisses over his heavy shaft. It glistened in the firelight. More jealous pleasure filled her. She calculated how many times it had released inside her. Thousands, easily. How many times it had sprung up when she did something as innocent as caress his face? Too many to count. How many times had she sucked it? After she'd discovered that John turned to steel, then to boneless water when she did so, it was hard to remember how many times she'd indulged. Three hundred, that was well within range.

John managed to open his eyes and stare at her. Her nasty stomach creature retracted its weapons and purred at the look of broken adoration it saw in him. He was trembling beneath her lips. One hand cracking the wooden board while the other moved in delicate patterns against her scalp, John Thornton wordlessly offered himself and everything that he was to her. Only to her. Naked, defenceless, vulnerable, willing to be cherished or destroyed. He was hers. Shackled by chains of his own making, humility and loyalty shining from every pore. _Hers. _

"My love," he murmured with conviction.

She moved to her knees and straddled him. John groaned, loud and pained, as he was welcomed into his rightful place. His hands gripped her waist and pulled her down, fusing their hips together. Margaret whimpered. Victoria and every other highborn woman that John could smite with a look were forgotten. She bared down as he pushed up, rocking together.

He tried to roll them.

She pinned him down again. "No," she kissed into his lips. She sat up, her palms immovable on his chest. "Tonight you're mine."

Her hips dominated his, riding him hard as flesh slapped flesh. She didn't let up. Any accidentally onlooker would have astounded at her wonton, selfish pleasure, so normally taken by a man, ungodly to be seen in a woman.

John hissed in agreement, plunging up and loudly renouncing his freedom. "Fuck me then," he dared her. "Fuck me until I forget my own name."

She bounced harder on him. "You only need remember mine," she replied. "Say it."

"_Margaret_." That perfect, angry, Northern roll.

"Who loves you, John?"

"Margaret."

"Who fucks you?"

"_Christ_," he hissed, shocked at her profanity. She had never once uttered that word. "You. Margaret fucks me. Fucks me blind. Fucks me stupid. I'll break my cock off inside you one of these days."

She made some breathy, excited noise at that. "No one else," she whispered.

John did not understand. Someone else to him meant another man. There had been an army of them in his nightmares. Fancier clothes, gentler manners, older money, and accents as soft as the current of the Thames. He yanked her down. He gripped her breasts and shoved his mouth against hers. "No one else," he warned. "Say _my_ name."

"John," she whimpered.

"Again!"

"_John!_" She pitched into him, crying his name as her body seized around his.

John felt her feminine arms and legs lock around him. His name was hot in his ear. Tight, liquid silk clenched everywhere as his lover rode him for her own pleasure. It was so exquisite for John that it bordered on pain. He yanked her against him, sealing them together, and roared. He exploded inside her, too hot and unbearable. Surely he had burst through his own skin, such power uncontrollable within one man. Her softer sobs mingled with his deeper moans.

_That had seen the day's end of Irwell's royal visit_.

No one would ever guess that the gentlewoman sweetly holding him by the shoulders now was that same manic creature in his bed that night.

_What had she said?_

Oh, yes.

"So you would suggest we turn down orders."

"I would suggest that you work hard enough. Your employees work hard enough. If your velvet is so well loved, then perhaps we should auction it. But I won't have those ninnies whip you into an early grave simply because our early customers are outshining them in our material. Besides," she dimpled. "No one truly wants what is so easily had."

A slow, knowing smile pulled at his lips. "Refusals certainly do make for desolate hearts."

"And yet they'll survive. Next season will come, we will make new patterns, the world will turn, and my husband will not suffer premature grey or an early heart attack."

He dipped low. His hands slid from her waist to her back. He pulled them together, touching fronts, muttering. "So you won't love me when I'm grey?"

Her eyes fluttered. Sweet, dark sugar. God, would it ever not smell wonderful? "I think you'll look rather dashing with salt and pepper. Unfairly so, as is everything with your looks."

He pressed his lips to hers. The crease in his brow returned and his closed eyes scrunched with displeasure. She giggled into his mouth. "What is it?"

"I'll tell you what's unfair," he grumbled. She gasped as he pulled her hair, baring her throat. He buried his nose into her lace collar. "Every last soul in Milton smells like smoke. Except you. Seven years in this town and you still smell like apples and green farms and blue sky." He puffed a hot cloud into her skin. "And sex. Christ, you smell good." He extracted himself and glared down at her. "How is that possible?"

She shuddered in his arms. Her latest, tiny bump pressed harder into him and he growled softly. _Goddamn right_, he thought. _At least the smell of sex makes sense_. Fucking Margaret Thornton was his sole purpose on earth. Even though she now carried his fifth, there was almost no night that didn't account for that scent.

Her thumb drifted up between his brows, easing the crease. "Careful," she whispered. "Lest you crack a walnut here."

"Have you no defence for smelling like sunshine in wide, open space?"

"I breathe the same smoke as any Northerner. I walk through it every day. My clothes and skin claim no special protection from it." She smirked. "Rather, I'd suspect fault with the accuser."

He shook her once, a stern glint in his eye. "Witch," he accused further.

She grinned. "Besotted man," she denounced.

"No. Hexed. Spellbound. Seduced. Possessed."

Her expression filled with mock pity. "Poor wretch. Poor, strong, rich, intelligent, capable, wilful wretch."

His stern gaze turned positively exasperated.

Smiling, she reached into her pocket, this being a perfect time to change the subject. "I have a gift for you, husband."

"If it's my heart you're pulling from your pocket, keep it. You've called my bluff. Poor wretch though I am, it is voluntary." He paused. "Non-negotiable."

"No," she laughed, holding up her closed hand. "Not your heart. Though something else I fear I've stolen from you."

John cocked his head. Gently, he took her fist in his hand and peeled her fingers back. A silver disc lay in her palm. John squinted at it. He took it, flipping it over. It was a compact, built much like a woman's locket, though bigger, like a man's pocket watch. It had no chain or clasp to be worn in either way.

The letters _J.T._ were etched elegantly on its shell.

He smiled in confusion. Sharing his smile, his wife took it from him and opened it. She bared its contents to him, hope shining in her eyes as he looked. "Do you like it?"

A braid.

A short, slender braid. Two inches long, coiled up in the compact's silver belly. The finest thread held it together at each end in petit bows. Each braid's section was made of wildly contrasting locks of hair. About ten strands each of bright blonde, shocking red, deep chestnut, greying brown. And of course, jet black. They rolled and swooped into each other, bound tight, but never blending, each piece with a clear soul of its own.

Margaret nibbled her lip as he inspected his present.

John stammered. "I…it's…"

"Us," Margaret supplied sweetly. "It's us. All of us."

"All?"

"You," she pointed to the jet. "And James. Fanny, Jonathan and Rose," she pointed to the blonde. "Hannah," the greyed brown. "Me," the chestnut. "And of course…"

"Bessie," John choked a bit on her name, her red hair setting fire to the others.

"You'll never be in doubt with hers," Margaret teased. "I had to iron it out. Her curls refused to sit well with the others. If that isn't your daughter to a tee..."

"My God. Margaret. This… this is so…"

She waited.

He looked up. She was surprised to see actual water in his blue eyes. "Perfect," he whispered. "It's perfect."

She beamed. "Truly?"

"I'll carry it until the day I die."

She took it from him, snapping it shut. Slowly, she flayed open his jacket, his waistcoat bared, his watch chain glinting in the light.

His breath caught as she reached in and gently dropped the compact into his inner jacket pocket. The one directly over his heart. He felt its slight weight drop. Adding one ounce and immeasurable pressure to his chest.

"Forgive me," she murmured, looking at the buttons of his shirt. "It's longest at the back. One night while you slept, I stole a lock from here," her hand crept up to the base of his skull. Her fingers twirled in the strands and John tipped his forehead down to hers, utterly content to let her play. She truly was made of electricity. Her fingers slipping into his hair made it stand on end. His nerves shorted out. His rationality deserted him. Devotion- mindless and immovable -lit him up.

"You should have seen me shaking, taking scissors to you, even if only your hair. But this way, we'll always be together. Even when we're apart." She finished.

"Margaret…"

"And don't worry, I'll add to it with each arrival." She shimmied their unborn against him.

"_Margaret_."

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

"Silly. I love you too."

"You don't understand. _I love you_. I love you so much, I…" he couldn't find the words. He blew a breath of frustration. He tried again. "You are magic, do you hear me? You _are_ magic. You _make _magic. You take my wretched love for you and make my children with it. You took worthless scraps and set London alight with your Mess. You took my family…" he clutched his fist over his heart. A flat, round object nestled against his palm, hidden in the fabric, and he fought against the ball rising up in his throat. "I love you so much," he repeated. It was correct, and yet, it did no justice.

Her gaze did not waver, warm and knowing and perfectly Margaret. "Silly," she repeated. "I love you too."

She loved when this happened. She loved when John's cool defences were beaten down. She loved that she was still able to surprise him, despite how well they knew each other. The idea for the compact came to her after their many jokes about their children's hair colour. How it didn't really matter in the slightest, but still provided ample material to tease each other with. She watched a hundred times as John ran his long fingers through each of their manes, perfectly indifferent to hue and completely in love with the child attached to it. Rose, Bessie, James and Jonathan were his North Star. So too was Hannah. Margaret already ached at the knowledge that they only had a few more short years with her. John's grief would easily rival her own when they both finally became grown orphans. And though it wasn't always apparent, he felt just as deeply for his sister. Fanny was his opposite pole in every respect, but they shared a history and a sadness, a strength and a blood. They were passionate people, a winter and a summer storm. Should anything ever happen to Fanny, John would shift Heaven and Earth to help her.

Eight people.

Soon to be nine. And unbeknownst to either of them, their future children would bring the total to seventeen.

Messy. Confusing. Vexing to the point of tearing their hair out.

The very same hair that he carried into old age. Winding into a rope, creating ties that bind.

They were the Thorntons.

_They were family._

End

**A/N: Thanks, everyone! This has been an awesome ride. I really appreciate the welcome I received in this fandom, thanks to everyone who wrote and said hello or gave encouragement. Special thanks to darkpartofmydestiny for all of her awesome support. She asked how many kids they ended up with, so I've updated that in the end, I saw them having fourteen. Her current pregnancy in this chapter is twin girls, both chestnuts, and thus continuing the argument that they never quite manage to have black-haired twins. I NEVER planned to let them have any. Where's the fun in that? **

**I decided to put a pin in the story now because one, I start my new job next week. Two, I'll bore everyone to tears talking about velvet and sex and ensuing babies. Three, I would eventually have to decide if any of these children succumbed to childhood disease, as was so common at the time. Boo! No one wants that. **

**So. I shall bid you adieu. **


End file.
